


The Rest of Our Lives

by Youngblood27



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Howling Commandos - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, and still in love with peggy because the ships are not mutually exclusive, it's the life of steve and bucky - it's going to have its ups and downs, low key stucky, more steve is in denial about his feelings, mostly downs, ranges from pre-captain america: the first avenger to immediate pre-airport scene of civil war, reader is steve rogers, sort of one-sided relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7911679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Youngblood27/pseuds/Youngblood27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. </p><p>Live, die, repeat, live, die, repeat,<br/>Once more unto the breach, my friend,<br/>Where we shall live, die, repeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Live, Die, Repeat

**Author's Note:**

> My friend said to me, and I quote: "I need you to give me a detailed description of Steve and Bucky's relationship." So here is the story of Steve and Bucky told through the life of Steven Grant Rogers.
> 
> I took some very small liberties with canon, but tried to keep it all MCU-feasible. Un-beta'd, so, apologies for any mistakes. Enjoy! Title based off of the Amazing Spider-Man 2 score.

Your birthday is July 4, 1918.

You were born in Brooklyn, New York City, near Coney Island and the Navy Yards, along the waterfront. Your mother’s name is Sarah. Your dad’s name is – no, correction, _was_ – Joseph. He died in the Great War from mustard gas, 107 th infantry, leaving your ma to take care of you all by herself. She’s a nurse – and a damn good one.

And it’s a good thing, too, because your health? It’s not exactly the best. You’ve got a lot of complications, and every winter your mother worries you might not make it to see spring.

When you’re around nine or ten years old, you punch an asshole punk a couple years older than you in the mouth when he calls your ma a whore. Or you try to. Predictably, the next thing you see is a fist flying at your face, and the sidewalk rises up to painfully meet your cheek.

You’re still getting the crap beat out of you when a boy two years older than you walks past the alley and, taken in by your boneheaded bravery, joins the fray. A few minutes later, he’s dusting you off, shoving a patchwork handkerchief in your bloodied face and smiling.

“You alright, you punk?”

“Get off, jerk!” It’s reflexive. No one’s nice to you – you’re tiny, skinny Steve. Can they blame you for being defensive?

“Gee, some thanks. M’name’s James Buchanan Barnes. People call me Bucky.”

You consider him. Brown hair combed over nice and neat to the right under a newsboy cap, blue eyes laughing, mouth curved in a carefree, lopsided, pirate grin. He’s got a canine missing – one of his baby teeth, you guess. His clothes are worn but taken care of. Not like yours. Your clothes have patches and holes in the knees – you get into too many fights for your own good and your ma’s barely scraping enough together to keep you both fed and housed. He offers a hand to you, and you slowly take it. He shakes your hand like he smiles – cheerful and light.

“Steve. Steve Rogers.”

You’re inseparable from that moment on.

You run around together, untroubled in a world slowly falling apart to yet another impending war and financial ruin. He makes you laugh, makes you feel as valued as any other person. He doesn’t treat you like you’re a fragile glass that’s going to shatter at the slightest touch, and you catch your ma thanking him for being your friend more than once when he’s over for dinner. He always blushes and says, “It’s really nothing, Mrs. Rogers.”

You spend nights together at each other’s houses, staying up so late your mothers scold the two of you, telling you in sharp tones to “be quiet or you’ll wake the neighbors”. You know your ma’s behind on the rent and your landlord isn’t too happy with that so you fall silent immediately. Until the two of you are alone in the dark and Bucky makes some crude joke and the two of you fall into helpless peals of laughter choked off by pressing your faces into the couch cushions piled on the floor and occasionally each other’s shoulders if you’re lying close enough. The old sheets draped over the disassembled sofa shake, and the fort caves in. Unbeknownst to you two, your mothers lie in their beds in the dark, rolling their eyes and sighing in aggravation at the noise but smiling all the same.

They know the two of you are something special. You’re two halves of a whole, and you don’t know this but the first word that comes to your mother’s mind when she thinks about the two of you is soul mates. _Platonic_ soul mates of course, if that’s even possible, but soul mates all the same. Where there’s one of you, the other is not far behind.

When you two are older, he drags you to Coney Island with his paycheck savings from working at the docks and makes you ride a rollercoaster that you know will make you throw up and he knows will make you throw up, but he’s an ass so he does it anyways.

As you predicted, you throw up into the trashcan nearest the ride’s exit, and you glare at the half-eaten cotton candy as Bucky howls with laughter and unapologetically slaps you on the back.

He makes it up to you afterwards by signing up for that art class with you.

It’s 1940. You’re about to turn twenty-two when your mother comes down with TB, and you know this time she isn’t going to be able to pull through. You bury her next to your dad, can feel Bucky watching you the whole service. You know he just wants to make sure you’re okay, knows you and your ma were all the other had left. It feels childish, but you run off once Father O’Malley finishes up his sermon and your ma’s coffin rests peacefully in her grave.

Bucky catches up with you outside your apartment, kicks the brick off your spare key while you fumble around for an excuse to be left alone when, really, you don’t want to be. Before you know it, he’s asking you to move in with him again, calling up memories of your couch cushion nights, and, once more, you respond with

“Thanks, Buck. But I can get by on my own.”

“The thing is…you don’t have to.” He grabs your shoulder, thumb pressing against your clavicle and brushing over the bone in comfort. He smiles kindly, sympathetically. “I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.”

What could you say to that other than yes?

You move in together. Or rather, Bucky loads up what few belongings you have into a wheelbarrow he “borrowed” from work and takes it over to his apartment. It’s only a little bigger than yours, and with a little negotiating the two of you incorporate your stuff into his place. Your rickety easel you got while dumpster diving stands in front of his drawers, and you stand your books up on top of the small nightstand that’s next to Buck’s three legged armchair which is balanced with a stack of old newspapers, magazines, and books.

You try fighting Bucky on putting your sketches and artwork up above the nightstand, but you lose that argument and soon the thin walls are punched with tiny thumbtack holes, decorated with cheap-charcoal sketches of different people and places.

There’s only room for one bed in the apartment. You share it without even thinking twice about it. He was right – it’s just like the old days with the couch cushions. If Bucky’s planning to bring a girl back, you clear out for the night, crashing at his sister’s house. Rebecca never asks any questions, just smirks at you as she opens the door and you tell her off.

You go dancing together, see movies (you couldn’t get Bucky to stop singing the _Wizard of Oz_ soundtrack for _months_ ), get drunk on your nights off, and stumble back to the apartment together to crash down on the thin mattress. When you wake up it’s a careful game of freeing limbs, elbowing ribs, kicking shins, and untangling suspenders from belts and arms. Someone usually ends up on the floor, red faced and laughing. Your neighbor above you pounds loudly on the floor in protest and you frantically hiss “ _shhh!”_ at each other.

Someone usually gets hit by a pillow.

You’re at your art class, Bucky next to you, paintbrush in hand and scowling at the canvas before him, when the news breaks that the United States has joined World War II.

It’s like the Great War – or World War I as they’re calling it now – all over again. Maybe less romanticism, but the nationalism is back full swing. Do your duty for your country, stop Hitler, save the innocent and the damsels in distress, loose lips sink ships – it’s starting all over again. All the men and women are marching en masse to the enlistment booths and the Red Cross, ready to join the fight in any way they can.

One night over a luxury dinner of hot dogs and baked beans, Bucky is quiet. Far too quiet. You ask him what’s up. He says nothing and you give him a look. Tell him you know him too well for that bullshit, now what’s up?

He tells you he’s going to enlist.

Without thinking you say, “Well so am I.” You frown when Bucky laughs, and he stops slowly when he realizes that you aren’t joking.

That night you’re up late. You turn out the light somewhere around eight just to save money on the bill, but that doesn’t mean the conversation ends. After about two and a half hours of increasingly angry arguing, Bucky grabs a hold of your arm and drags you over to the bed, sitting you down so that you can look at each other in the yellow light of the street lamp. He looks scared.

“Steven Grant Rogers, you are _not_ enlisting.” His voice is hard and angry, and it’s the first time you’ve heard him get like this with you. Any normal person would have been scared. But you’re a boneheaded idiot, so you just get pissed.

“Why? Because I’m not good enough? I-I’m too small? I’m–”

“Yes! God damn it, Steve, you’d be dead the moment you stepped off the fucking boat!”

You don’t say anything after that. No explosive reaction. Instead, you seethe. You glare at him, wanting nothing more than to punch him square in the face, make him see that you’re not weak. Not too small. You settle for getting up in a huff and storming towards the door.

“Steve,” he starts, getting up slowly. “Steve, c’mon, I’m sorry.” You snatch your jacket off the split coat rack and shoulder open the door. “Steve!”

He chases you down the stairs, down the sidewalk, but you ignore him, grinding your teeth and glaring at the lamp-lit concrete. Homeless people are huddled in some of the alleys you pass, but you don’t pay them any mind.

Bucky finally grabs your upper arm and twists you around to face him.

You shout at each other. Vent your frustration, your betrayal, your fears. You tell him that you can’t _not_ do anything – there’s a _war_ going on for god’s sake. He tells you that he won’t watch his best friend die. Eventually, you both go quiet. He speaks first, and what he says makes your eyes widen.

“We’ll enlist together. I’ll train you at Goldie’s Gym on the corner, help you build up your strength.” He squeezes your stick arm and shakes you a little. “Put some muscle on you, huh?” You look down at your newspaper stuffed shoes and smile softly to yourself. He sighs heavily, loops an arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him. “C’mon, punk. Let’s go home."

“You’re a jerk,” you throw back, and he locks your head under his arm, giving you a Dutch rub, and you sock him in the stomach. He lets out an exaggerated “oomph” of air, playfully doubling, and lets you back up. His arm is still around you though, and you let your head rest against his shoulder.

Two weeks later, you both go to the US Recruiting and Induction Center in New York City. You’re taken into separate rooms, and Bucky gives you a smile the equivalent of a thumbs-up just before you duck behind the exam curtain.

You’re rejected.

He isn’t.

You apply again somewhere else, saying you’re from another city. And another. And another. Steve from New Haven, Paramus. Three other bullshit cities. Every time it’s 4F.

Bucky leaves for basic training. He tells you it’s only going to be two months, that he’ll be back before he leaves for wherever his orders send him, that the two of you will have a farewell night full of debauchery and good times. It’ll be fine.

It’ll all be fine.

You want to send him letters. Tell him about all the fights you’ve gotten into just because you know it’ll piss him off to no end that you’re getting into trouble while he’s off getting his ass kicked by drill sergeants. And you know what, maybe you want to act out a little. Maybe you want to fight random assholes in alleys and behind movie theaters and in parking lots because you can’t fight the people you really want to.

But you don’t.

It’s only two months.

Bucky comes home like he said he would, with only a week tops before he gets his orders and ships out. It’s awkward between the two of you, as though neither of you really knows what to say. Some nights when you’re just lying in bed in silence, backs turned to each other, you’ll whisper

“You’ll be careful. Right?”

“ ‘Course, Steve, now go to sleep.”

He makes himself sound like he’s half-awake, annoyed at being disturbed, but you know from his breathing pattern that he’s been awake as long as you.

Finally the day comes when he’s supposed to head down to the Recruiting Center where all of this began to get his orders. You watch as he gets dressed, pulling on his starched, flawless uniform and slowly doing up the buttons. He does his tie quickly, and turns to look at you.

“What d’ya think, Rogers?”

You roll your eyes and get up from the edge of the mattress, reaching for your friend’s skewed beige tie. You tug at the fabric, straightening it around his neck before patting it back into place.

“There. Now you look good.”

“Good enough to kick some German ass?” he drawls, smirking.

“ _Nazi_ ass. Not German.”

Bucky doesn’t care. Rolls his eyes. He’s almost out the door when he stops and turns around.

“Almost forgot!” He plucks his hat off the table and sets it cock-eyed on his head, grinning that stupid lopsided grin at you. It’s the same one he gave you when you first met. “I’ll be back tonight. It’s gonna be fun, promise.”

He leaves in a rush of energy and positivity, and the small apartment starts to feel like a heavy tomb, silent and cold.

You’re in a movie theater later that day when one asshole starts yelling at the support our troops film before your cartoon. You see a woman crying and pick out her sweetheart earrings, but you would have been able to tell that she had a loved one in the war without them. And maybe you stand up against the asshole for her. But maybe part of it is also because of Bucky – because now you’re one of the “girls,” too.

So it’s a cruel twist of fate that Bucky is the one who saves you in the alley from the theater goon. Still dressed in his uniform, no less.

“I had him on the ropes.” You wipe blood from your mouth and see the paper in his hands as he helps you up.

 _Oh._ You look him up and down.

“You get your orders?” You _know_ the answer, so why are you asking? He looks down, as though he doesn’t want to respond. Looks back up at you as he does with a weak smile that says he’s trying to make this okay.

“The 107th.”

 _Oh._ There’s an apologetic light to his eyes that he tries to mask with his trademark drawl, but it’s strained and forced.

“Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.”

You feel a bit like you’ve just been sucker punched.

You go on a double date with him to the World Exposition of Tomorrow like everything’s normal. Like tomorrow will be the same as every other yesterday you’ve had. You think about how it’s almost like Bucky wants to get a glimpse of the future with you before he’s gone. Something turns in your stomach at what that says about what he’s thinking’ll happen to him.

 _107 th. _You swallow back your worry, your mother’s stories of your father filling your mind, and offer popcorn to your date whom promptly turns her nose up at you. Figures.

You know you’re not really wanted here. You’re nowhere near the standard for an attractive man, not in wartime. So, you do what you do best. You ditch your date, and you try to enlist again. It’s doing everyone a favor, really.

You don’t count on Bucky chasing after you.

Don’t count on the argument. Though you’d be lying if you said you were surprised by it.

“Look, I know you don’t think I can do this–”

“This isn’t a back alley, Steve, it’s war!” You’re suddenly sitting in the dark on the bed again, and you glance down. When you speak, your voice is soft.

“I know it’s a war, I –”

“Why are you so keen to fight?!” He’s angry with you. Frustrated. “There are _so_ many important jobs!” Here, you snap back.

“What do you want me to do? Collect scrap metal in–”

“Yes!” He interrupts, but you continue without pausing.

“My little red wagon?!”

“Why not?” You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“I’m not gonna sit in a _factory_ , Bucky –”

“I don’t –” You cut him off. You know what he’s going to say. _I don’t want you getting hurt._

“Bucky!” He stops and looks at you. “Come on, there are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That’s what you don’t understand. This isn’t about me.” A closed off, indescribable expression comes over him.

“Right. ‘Cause you got nothing to prove.” That one stung. You stand there, looking at each other, not saying anything. Finally, he sighs. Rocks on his feet. Looks anywhere but at you. He knows he can’t win an argument with you. Not on this, no matter how scared he is for you. No matter how _right_ he is. He starts to back away, posture and gait defeated. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

“How can I?” A smile plays at your lips. You can’t let him leave angry. Not this time, not tonight. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.” He rolls his eyes and walks back to you.

“You’re a punk.” He hugs you tight, like he can change your mind or at least hold you down with just his body.

“Jerk.” You clap each other on the backs, and he steps away. “Be careful.” He nods and turns around, walking away. You can’t resist one last barb. “Don’t win the war ‘til I get there!” He turns on his heel and gives you a languid, sassy salute with an identical smile.

The two of you are okay. As okay as you can be, and you watch him run off with the two girls. You’ll probably have to crash at Rebecca’s again tonight.

You go through the evaluation process expecting another 4F. So it’s a surprise when you meet Dr. Erskine, a bit terrifying too. And then you get an A1. You’ve just been accepted into the Army.

You’re going to war.

Holy _shit_ , you did it, you’re going overseas to fight with everyone else.

You go home that night, and Bucky’s sitting at the table, alone, glass of whiskey in his hand, staring blankly out the window above your bed. You’re bursting at the seams, longing to tell him you got accepted. But then you remember your conversation outside the enlistment center.

_They’ll catch you – worse, they’ll actually take you. _

“How’d it go?” he asks.

You lie.

He gives a sigh of relief and slumps down in his chair, head tilting back. He apologizes, says you must be disappointed, but you know _he_ isn’t. And he knows, too, makes no effort to hide it. Honestly, you’re relieved he doesn’t make a bigger deal of it, doesn’t try to lie and act sad for you.

And that night as the two of you get into bed, you throw an arm across his stomach and bury your head under your pillow to block out the sounds of the trains.

“Night, Buck” you say to the dark and feel Bucky take in a deep breath.

“Night, Steve.”

You fall asleep to the feeling of your best friend’s body rising and falling beneath your forearm, letting you know he’s still there. Still alive.

For now.

He gets up very early the next morning, probably close to four. You’re awake immediately, and you both get dressed before walking down to the docks. The two of you are silent the whole time, close enough that your shoulders bump together every few steps. The cold, damp air seeps through your clothes, your skin, chilling your bones, and you can hear your mother’s voice in your head telling you to _get inside before your catch your death, Steven._ As you near the water, you see Mrs. Barnes and Bucky’s younger sister Rebecca waiting in the fog among all the other family members as the soldiers board their ships. You stop walking, tell Bucky you’ll see him when he gets back. That you’ll write if you can.

The two of you hug long and hard, tell each other to be careful and stay safe, exchange “punks” and “jerks” for the millionth time since you were ten and twelve, and as he walks towards his family you know this is the last time you’re going to see James Buchanan Barnes. The last time you’re going to see _your_ Bucky. The man who comes back will be a stranger.

You wonder what happened to the days of couch cushions and pillow forts.

Rebecca and her boyfriend move into your guys’ apartment in the next few days to keep it up for you while you’re away. She’s a little angry at you – no, she’s pissed. But she promises not to tell Bucky what you’re doing. Not for you, but for him.

“I’m not gonna tell him his best friend’s going off to get himself killed,” she says shortly to you as you get ready to leave for the Recruitment Center. “Not when you’re the goddamn reason he’s over there.” You swallow hard, a pang of guilt stabbing your belly as you hover on the threshold.

“I’ll come back,” you tell her a little petulantly, but she scoffs, voice a little unsteady.

“Don’t bullshit me, Rogers. You know you won’t.” You look at her over your shoulder and sigh. Then you smile that humble, chagrined smile of yours.

“It’d probably be too much to ask you to wish me luck then, huh?” you ask, and she laughs, hands on her hips, and looks up at the ceiling. There are tears in her eyes, and she shakes her head, walking over to you.

“You’re an _idiot_ , Steven Rogers,” she sighs as she envelops you in a hug that reminds you so much of her older brother’s.

“I know,” you say thickly into her shoulder. She gives you one last squeeze and whispers,

“Good luck.”

And with that, you leave your apartment and walk down the rickety metal stairs and down the street for what you don’t know is the last time in your life. Every step you take in your old neighborhood is your last. You’ll never see it again.

The Army truck you’re loaded up into with the rest of the recruits takes you all the way to New Jersey, to a barbed wire enclosed base called “Camp Lehigh.” You look around at all the other people around you and swallow nervously. They’re big, muscular. You look like a _child_ next to them, and Rebecca Barnes’ words echo in your ears.

 _You’re an idiot, Steven Rogers_.

Yep. _Yep_ , you’re an idiot.

Boot camp is fucking _awful_. Of course you knew it was going to be difficult and it was going to make you miserable, but you didn’t realize that the _people_ would be so horrible, too. There’s one guy, Gilmore Hodge, that you particularly hate. He’s a bully – nothing more and nothing less.

So it’s particularly pleasing to you when Agent Carter welcomes you all to base in all her uniformed glory and knocks him flat on his ass. You smirk and immediately feel something flutter in your chest as you look at her.

You always did have a soft spot for asshole-intolerant brunettes.

She’s always there in the corner of your vision, you discover, as you struggle through your training. She’s always watching you, always keeping an eye out for you, and you want to thank her, but honestly she scares you a little bit. But in a good way. You have an incredibly high level of respect for her – she’s a woman in a world of men and war, and she’s squaring up to every challenge, knocking each flat on its ass like they’re all as insignificant and full of hot-air as Hodge.

And when a live grenade falls off the back of the munitions truck and rolls into the middle of where Peggy is putting you all through your exercises, you don’t miss how she moves with you to throw herself over it. But you beat her to it. You hurl your small body over the explosive, curl around it, and brace yourself for the explosion.

“Get away! Get back!” you shout, teeth gritted against the blinding pain that’ll be the last thing you ever experience this world, and then you realize…

It hasn’t gone off.

You sit up, and the rest of the cadets cautiously stand up and leave their covers. Hodge sticks his head up from behind the nearest Jeep.

“Dummy grenade,” an officer calls. “All clear, back into formation.”

“Is this a test?” you ask breathlessly, and you see both Erskine and Agent Carter looking at you with caring pride.

The next day, you are brought to a secret SSR base in Brooklyn, and you blink in surprise as you recognize the head scientist walking up to you. It’s Howard Stark, and all you can think of is the flying car you saw crash and burn at the World Exposition of Tomorrow.

_Oh, I am so fucked._

It’s still all you can think about as you’re strapped into a weird chamber and injected with a serum that sets your insides on fire, and you struggle to keep your calm with a strained joke before the Vita-Rays hit you.

The procedure is excruciating. You scream in pain as the radiation floods your body, and it feels like every molecule in you is being ripped apart, reorganized, and reassembled. You can hear Agent Carter shouting for the machine to be shut down, and you shout over her, telling her that you can do this.

You have to do this. You have to get over there and stop this war.

And you do. You get through it, and when the power cuts out and slowly turns back on, the chamber opening and hands reaching out to help you down from the contraption, you realize _holy shit it actually worked._

Everything is smaller. Your lungs take in full breaths, unhindered by your asthma, and as you look down at your body you see something foreign. It makes you dizzy and a little nauseous because this isn’t you. These muscles and broad shoulders aren’t you, and yet it _is_ you. It’s like some kind of weird body horror, and all you can think is _wait until Bucky sees this_.

But then the undercover HYDRA agent blows up the observation booth. Shoots Erskine down where he stands and snatches the last vial of the super soldier serum on his way out. The kind-hearted German man dies in your arms, tapping your heart with a single finger as he exhales his last bloody breath.

_Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing. That you will stay who you are: not a perfect soldier, but a good man._

You chase the HYDRA operative down, get shot in the side doing it, sort of save an Irish kid from getting killed, take down a submarine, and end up on the front page of a newspaper wielding a taxi door with a red star on it as a shield. The serum shatters on the sidewalk, the Nazi commits suicide with a cyanide pill, and Colonel Phillips passes his judgment.

“You’re an _experiment_. You’re going to Alamogordo.”

“The serum worked!”

“I asked for an army, and all I got was you. _You_ are not enough.”

Just when you think that this is it, that you’re going to be condemned to a lifetime of needle sticks and doctors and scientists, Senator Brandt comes to you with a proposition.

And so it is you find your awkward self thrust onto the international stage of the USO tours, selling war bonds to Americans and Allies alike under the guise of patriotic super soldier Captain America. At first you’re horrible at it. It’s painful for audiences, cast, crew, _and_ you. But soon you grow into it, and ‘Captain America’ becomes a brand. Movies, comics, photo opportunities – you’re suddenly a national hero without having lifted a single finger. And still, Bucky weighs heavily on your mind. His letters have been coming less and less frequently, and your gut churns as you think about how long it’s been since the last mud stained scrap of paper came through the mail from him.

_Ready to sock old Adolf in the jaw?_

_The Star Spangled Man with a Plan!_

Frankly, it should be embarrassing. All the girls, the movies, the costumes, the attention, the _babies_ people give you to hold that scream the whole time – it should mortify you. But you can’t bring yourself to care because you feel like for the first time in this whole war you’re actually doing something to help. You don’t think about the fact that you’re basically a chorus girl dressed in a militarized American flag, a romanticized lie about the glory of the front lines that your friend is risking his life on.

You don’t think about it until Senator Brandt sends you off to Italy to perform in front of actual troops. Don’t think about it until you’re performing for crickets, until battered and bruised men are shouting at you, hurling rotten tomatoes and mooning you and calling for the girls to come back out. And then…then you realize what you’ve become. You feel sick.

And then, like fate, as you’re sitting on the stairs of the stage drawing yourself as a monkey riding a unicycle on a tightrope, _she_ comes, her voice breaking through the rain like an angel’s.

“Hello, Steve.”

“Hi,” you managed, stunned at seeing her again. She gives a small smile.

“Hi.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Officially, I’m not here at all,” Peggy Carter says, sitting down a few steps above you. “That was quite a performance.” You cringe.

“Yeah, uh…I had to improvise a little bit. The crowds I’m used to are usually more, uh…” You trail off, hating yourself even more. “Twelve.”

“I understand you’re ‘America’s New Hope.’”

“Bond sales take a ten percent bump in every state I visit,” you recite, and the self-loathing just keeps on growing. Peggy picks up on it. Calls you out, like she always does.

“Is that Senator Brandt I hear?” You bristle because she’s right.

“At least he’s got me doing this. Phillips would have had me stuck in a lab,” you counter, annoyed but a little defeated.

“And these are your only two options?” Peggy presses, voice still gentle and kind. “A lab rat or a dancing monkey? You were meant for more than this, you know.” You know. God, you know, and it must show on your face because Peggy cocks her head ever so slightly to the side. “What?”

“You know, for the longest time, I dreamed about coming overseas and being on the front lines, serving my country. I finally got everything I wanted…and I’m wearing _tights_.” Captain America, indeed. A truck honks behind you, and you both look to the medical truck pulling up. They unload a man with his legs blown off, the red of his blood-soaked bandages wrapped around the stumps visible even from this distance. “They look like they’ve been through hell.”

“These men more than most.” She takes in a breath, expression solemn. “Schmidt sent out a force to Azzano. Two hundred men went up against him, and less than fifty returned.” Your gut sinks. _This_ was war. This was what you were _dancing_ and _performing_ for. Then, Peggy continues, and your world crashes down.

“Your audience contained what was left of the 107th.”

 _The 107 th_, a voice drawls from long ago.

Your heart stops, and you look up at her, terrified, as she says “the rest were killed or captured.”

_Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow._

“The 107th?” you demand, and before she can finish asking “what?” you’re running for Colonel Phillips’ command tent as fast as your super soldier body can carry you.

_No. No, no, no, no, no –_

“I need the casualty list from Azzano,” you order once the tense pleasantries are over between you and your ex-S.O.. Your heart is in your throat. You’re light-headed. Nothing seems real, and you feel like you’re about to explode.

“You don’t get to give me orders, son,” he answered coldly, glaring up at you, but you have no time to play this game with him.

“I just need one name, Sergeant James Barnes from the 107th.” He ignores you to make a side threat to Agent Carter, and you want to scream. “ _Please_ tell me if he’s alive, sir,” you interrupt, desperately trying to maintain some level of decorum. “B-A-R–”

“I can spell,” he interrupts testily, but there’s a sort of pity to his eyes. Sympathy. He sighs, gets up, and starts flipping through the stack of papers in his hands. “I have signed more of these condolence letters today than I would care to count. But the name does sound familiar.” He turns to face you, and like a child, you still cling to hope even though your posture slowly starts to crumble. “I’m sorry.”

Numb. You just feel numb, and your heart’s plummeted back down into your feet.

_I’m sorry._

No. No, he can’t be gone. Bucky _can’t_ be gone, he can’t just _go_ like this. You feel lost, like you’ve suddenly been blindfolded, thrown in an unfamiliar room, and told to find your way out. _He’s not gone_. He’s as large as life in your head, laughing and smiling in his uniform, throwing his arm around your shoulders.

He’s not dead. _He’s not dead._

You slowly look away to the map hung on the wall, hyper-aware of your bizarrely even breathing. “What about the others?” you hear yourself ask. _Others, what others? You don’t_ care _about any others._ “Are you planning a rescue mission?”

“Yeah, it’s called winning the war,” Phillips returns like it’s obvious, and you look back to him, anger slowly mounting.

 _You don’t have confirmed death for_ any _of these people. They could all be alive._ Bucky _could be alive._

“But if you know where they are, why not at least–”

“They’re 30 miles behind the lines through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We’d lose more men than we’d save.” When Phillips turns back to you, his tone is nasty once more. “But I don’t expect you to understand that because you’re a chorus girl.”

 _I know enough to know Bucky’s worth every one of those lives_ , you want to spit but all you say is a venomous “I think I understand just fine.”

“Well then, understand it somewhere else,” the older man throws back and brushes past you. “If I read the posters correctly, you got someplace to be in 30 minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” you call after him, eyes fixed on the map of Ally lines and the HYDRA base with a growing sense of determination building in your chest. “I do.”

Agent Carter catches up with you in the wardrobe tent for the showgirls and walks up to you as you’re putting on a uniform issue jacket, gun, holster, pants, and boots over your Captain America tights costume.

“What do you plan to do, walk to Austria?” she demands, setting her rain-soaked coat to the side.

“If that’s what it takes.”

“You heard the Colonel, your friend is most likely _dead_ –”

“You don’t know that,” you growl, not stopping in your preparations. _He’s not. I know Bucky. He’s not dead. He’s_ not. _He_ can’t _be. He’s James fucking Barnes, and he’s not dead. Not yet._

You would know it if he was. Would feel it in your very soul if he was ever torn away from you – across the oceans and valleys and mountains, you would feel it. You would know.

“Even so, he’s devising a strategy. If he detects–”

“By the time he’s done that, it could be too late,” you snap, violently pulling on a leather jacket. You grab your Captain America shield and one of the chorus girl’s helmets adorned with an _A_ before marching out of the tent towards a Jeep.

“Steve!” You turn to Carter, heart pounding in your chest and flooding your system with pure adrenaline and determination. The sun has broken through the rain, and for some reason you feel invincible.

“You told me you thought I was meant for more than this,” you begin. “Did you mean that?” A small smirk pulls at her lips.

“Every word.”

“Then you gotta let me do this,” you say and quickly climb into the driver’s seat. She stops you again.

“I can do more than that.”

The next thing you know, Howard Stark – the best civilian pilot in the world, according to Agent Carter – is flying you and her over HYDRA territory under the cover of night. She explains the tactical situation, gives you a radio to call her in for extraction once you save everyone, and looks at you like you’re a little crazy. And as the enemy’s anti-aircraft shells start exploding around you, you pull open the door, check the straps on your parachute, and jump.

_I’m coming, Buck. I’m coming._

Getting inside is almost _ridiculously_ easy. You’ve had little to no formal training, and your plan of “if anybody yells at me, I can just shoot them” and hitting people with your shield where guns would draw too much attention is working remarkably well. Like Agent Carter said, it’s a factory of some sort, and they’re manufacturing some kind of weird blue energy filled ammunition clips. You sneak one into your pocket as you make your way towards the prisons, and as you look around you realize that all the workers are prisoners of war. You nervously scan their faces for Bucky, and you can’t figure out if you should feel relieved or scared that none of them are him.

You finally make your way into the makeshift prison area and take out the guards at the doors and then the one HYDRA goon pacing back and forth on top of the cells. As you fish around for the key, a prisoner looks up at you with a confused frown on his face. He’s the only black man in the cell.

“Who are you supposed to be?” he asks.

“I’m…” You look down at him, saying the first thing that comes to mind. “Captain America.” There’s a pause, and then the man with the red beret speaks, British accent thoroughly confused.

“I…beg your pardon?"

You unlock all the doors, and you scan every single dirty and bruised face, heart sinking as you go through each cell and still can’t find Bucky.

_Please. Please, please don’t do this to me. I know you’re here. I know you’re still with me, please don’t do this to me._

“Is there anybody else?” you ask, falling into step beside the British soldier as the two of you lead everyone out. “I’m looking for a Sergeant James Barnes.” There’s a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes as he solemnly answers.

“There’s an isolation ward in the factory, but no one’s ever come back from it.” Your heart skips a beat.

“Alright. The tree line is northwest, 80 yards past the gate,” you order. “Get out fast and give ‘em hell. I’ll meet you guys in the clearing with anybody else I find.” _With Bucky._

“Wait,” the black man calls again. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Yeah,” you half-lie. _I’m saving Him – I’ve never been more sure about how to do something in my entire life_. “I’ve knocked out Adolf Hitler over 200 times.”

And with that, you’re running. You may not have training. You may not know what you’re doing. But every single time Bucky saved your ass back home is playing in your mind, and now you know how he must have felt every time he got into a fight for you. Because this…right now you feel like you could take apart this whole factory with your bare hands if it meant you would find him. You’d fight whole armies. You’d level entire countries. You’d throw your life away if it meant he’d be safe.

It takes you a while to find the isolation ward, and you kill several HYDRA soldiers along the way. You free about three people from the tiny coffin-like cells, and again, your heart sings and breaks as you see that none of the shaky, half-blind and half-mad people who stumble out are Bucky. From them, you find out that there’s a torture room down the next hall, and your heart turns to ice in your chest as you send them on their way. You can hear the chaos of rebellion outside, the booming of tanks, the odd sound of the energy weapons firing and disintegrating people. You know that the POWs greatly outnumber the HYDRA soldiers, so it’s just a matter of time before this base falls. You’ve got to find Bucky – and fast. You round the corner and start running down the hall, glancing into each empty room as you run past the open doors.

_I’m coming, Buck. Please hang on. Hang on, hang on, hang on._

You know you’re in the right place when you see a short, doctor-looking man run out of a room far off from you, arms laden with briefcases. You come to a stop as the man looks at you, and you can see the fear in his eyes as he frantically turns on his heel and runs away.

That can’t be good.

You start running after him, coming to a stop outside the room he’d just scurried from. You’re torn between chasing him down and checking to see what he’d been so scared of you seeing when a painful groan reaches you ears.

_Please. Please be him. Please be him._

Walking quickly but cautiously, you round the corner into the room. The tattoo of gunfire from outside echoes in the silence, and you hear something that makes you want to cry in a cruel combination of joy and pain.

“S’rgnnt,” a voice slurs, and you run over to the bed because you _know_ that voice, you’ve always known it, always will. “Three-two-five-five…sev’n…” You come to a sliding stop next to him, hand going to his shoulder. “Barn–”

“Bucky?”

His eyes open blearily at your gentle touch and scared call, but it’s like they’re not seeing anything. They’re fogged over, unfocused, expression slack, and you quickly give him a once over. There’s an odd bruise arcing around his left eye, covering the brow and the cheekbone in a C-shape, and as you look down the rest of his body, you can see bruised injection points and burns beneath his ripped and dirty clothing. He looks like a skeleton, ribs jutting out as his stomach sinks in, and you feel sick. His body is strapped down to the bed, legs pinned together and arms trapped against his sides.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, horrified and sick. You quickly rip the straps away with your hands, not bothering to unbuckle them. His eyes are still wide and blank, and you notice his breathing is irregular and shallow, his body rigid. He doesn’t start moving until you tear the straps from his chest, and his head lolls to the side, eyes still slightly glazed over.

“Is – izztha…”he slurs, and you quickly grab his shoulders, squeezing as tightly as you dare. You feel like you could shatter him, but you can’t let him go.

“It’s me,” you answer in a whisper, and your breaths grow treacherously shaky as those tired, grey blue eyes focus on you at the sound of your voice. “It’s Steve.” His mouth curves up in a delirious, lopsided smile, and your heart shatters.

“Steve?” he whispers, voice still slurred and as feverish as his smile.

“Come on.” You pat his shoulders twice, quickly pulling him up into a sitting position and helping him to his feet.

“ _Steve_.” That stupid, dazed smile is still on his face as you hold him steady in front of you. He’s not even questioning how the hell you’re in a HYDRA base and not back home, safe and sound in Brooklyn, and it makes you worried.

His grip is weak on the lapels of your jacket, barely holding himself upright, so you abort your attempt to pull him close, instead cupping a hand briefly around the back and side of his neck. Your thumb brushes briefly against his stubble-rough cheek, and you want nothing more than to hug him. He looks up at you unsteadily.

“I thought you were dead,” you say, and it comes out rough and panting as your emotions finally hit you. He’s here. He’s _alive._ He’s _okay._ He’s _okay_ , you _saved him_. He’s here and you’re touching him, he’s _real_ under your hands. The dazedness is finally gone from Bucky’s face as he takes you in for the first time in ages, and his voice is almost as confused as his new expression. There’s a bur of distrust to his tone, like this is all a HYDRA trick meant to break him.

“I thought you were smaller.”

Before you can answer, there’s a loud explosion nearby, and you quickly look around, catching a quick glimpse of a map of HYDRA bases on the wall. Bucky’s still swaying dangerously under your hands, but you don’t have time to move slowly.

“Come on.”

You pull him close to your side, holding him up with your left arm around his waist as he slings his right arm heavily over your shoulders. His feet drag uselessly behind him as you start moving, and you cringe as you listen to him grunt in pain at the sudden return of circulation to his legs. After a few steps, he manages to ghost-walk along with you – you’re still carrying most of his weight, and he throws his left arm across your body to cling onto your right arm. You hold onto him just as tightly as he’s holding onto you, keeping him pressed close against you. He’s as weak as a child, and you wonder just how long they had him tied down.

“What happened to you?” he asks, voice tensely warbling with pain, and you give the most Steve Rogers response you can muster as you continue to all but carry him down the hall.

“I joined the Army.”

“You j-joined the _what_ –” he coughs and chokes, his fragile pace breaking, and he weakly shoves at the arm he’s holding onto with a frail death grip.

“I joined the Army,” you repeat, and Bucky starts laughing deliriously, eyes watering. But you know those aren’t amused tears. “Buck…”

“Shut up,” he manages, pushing away from you and stumbling forward on his own two feet. “Shut up, Rogers, you _idiot_ , what the _fuck were you thinking!”_ His hoarse voice isn’t much louder than loud talking, but you know that if he were in better shape he’d be yelling. He braces himself against the nearest wall, and you hover anxiously by his side.

“Protect you,” you answer quickly and honestly, reaching your hands out to him. “Buck, come on, we have to go.” He’s looking at you in something akin to suspicion, and you beg again. “It’s not safe, we have to _go._ ”

Slowly, he starts forward again, this time on his own two feet. His breathing is labored from the sudden physical exertion, but he shrugs you off when you try to help hold him steady again.

“What’d ya do?” he asks belligerently, exhaustion bringing his accent out full force.

“Let Howard Stark and this German scientist inject me with a radioactive super soldier serum to make me look like this,” you say, explaining the situation in the bluntest possible way you can. Because you know that if Bucky wants to kick your ass, he’s gonna keep moving. And right now, you _need_ to keep him moving.

“How – _Howard Stark?_ ” Bucky repeats, stumbling again but regaining his balance. “The man who made a fl–”

“Flying car that crashed, yeah. And a German scientist with a radioactive super soldier serum that was actually untested, now that I think about it.” Bucky gapes at you for a few moments as you two continue as quickly down the hall as you can.

“I’m gonna k-kick your ass, Steve,” he gasps between labored breaths, and you grin at him.

“There’s my Bucky.” He scowls at you, and you just smile even bigger as you continue down the hall, body angled slightly so you can still see your six and twelve o’clock.

“Did it hurt?” Bucky finally asks after a while. You answer easily.

“A little.”

“Is this _permanent?_ ” There’s a slightly petulant tone to his voice so you overcompensate with a chipper note to your voice that has him glaring daggers at you.

“So far!”

You pick up your pace as he storms after you.

You don’t run into any guards at all, and by the time you reach the factory floor, Bucky’s pretty much able to move around on his own. He’s still a little shaky, but he can at least run now. And just as you think you’ve got your way out, the machinery starts exploding.

 _Self-destruct sequence_ , you realize, and Bucky and you hurry back up the stairs as the flames lick at the lower catwalk. You’ll have to get out through the roof. But no sooner do you run for the bridge than you hear a German voice shout out to you.

“Captain America! How exciting!” You come to a stop, and see a tall man in a black trench coat approaching you from the other side of the bridge. The shorter man you saw running from Bucky’s room is beside him, hovering by the door you need to escape from. “I am a great fan of your films!” He starts over the causeway, and you walk out to meet him.

You don’t notice how Bucky’s grip tightens on the handrails, or how he’s glaring in a mixture of fear and hate at the short, skittish man you’re paying no mind to.

“So, Dr. Erskine managed it after all,” Johann Schmidt taunts easily, sauntering closer. Your skin crawls, your stomach churns as you think about Erskine. As you think about the men you helped out of the isolation ward. As you think about Bucky and the hollow, blank expression on his face when you found him. “Not exactly an improvement, but still…impressive.” You send a fist crashing into his face, and he stumbles back with a grunt of surprise.

“You’ve got no idea,” you snarl, and for the first time in your life, you feel black, utter hatred. But your resolve starts to waver as Schmidt stands up.

“Haven’t I?”

His fist slams into your shield and leaves a fist shaped indent in the metal.

_“Did it work?”_

_Erskine scoffs like the answer is obvious._

_“Yeah.”_

Right. You’re fighting a super soldier. You’re _fucked_.

You only manage to exchange a few blows before Schmidt’s assistant pulls a lever and the two halves of the bridge retract back to their opposite sides. Bucky shifts his hold, still glaring at the two men opposite you. And still you miss that he’s only glaring at one.

“No matter what lies Erskine told you,” Schmidt crows, “you see _I_ was his greatest success!”

And in a moment that will replay in your nightmares for decades to come, the Red Skull reveals his namesake. He reaches underneath the curve of his jaw and _peels his goddamn face off_ to reveal a grotesque flesh skull underneath, the skin (was it skin?) a bloody red, his nose a ragged hole in his face.

Beside you, Bucky looks disgusted and horrified.

“You don’t have one of those, do you?” he asks in true James Barnes fashion, and you can’t bring yourself to answer.

“You are deluded, Captain,” Schmidt calls. “You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality, you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind!” You sense rather than see Bucky shift closer to you, and you feel him grab onto the back of your jacket. “Unlike you, I embrace it proudly! Without fear!”

You try to goad him into sticking around with a “then why are you running!” but he just smiles, sees right through you, and vanishes in an elevator. You’ve got no way out now. But a quick glance to the upper level shows a beam that you and Bucky could precariously walk across to an emergency escape door.

A fraction of a second behind you, Bucky sees it too.

“Come on, let’s go,” you order quickly, grabbing onto his arm and pulling him behind you towards the stairs. “Up.”

When you reach the top, Bucky’s a good ten feet behind you. Every chance he can, he’s bracing himself on the railing, struggling to keep himself standing. And it’s such a far cry from the man you knew before that you’re shaken.

“Come on, let’s go.” You try to sound encouraging and calm. You’re failing. “One at a time.”

You help him over the railing, holding him steady by the elbow as long as you can as he starts to inch out across the beam. Your heart’s in your throat as you watch him get farther and farther away from you, and you almost lunge after him when, a third of the way across, another explosion makes the beam drop a good six inches. It’s slowly prying free of it’s fastenings. Somehow, he stays balance and calm, and you’re gripping the railing so tightly your fingers dig furrows into the metal.

Then, just as he’s stepping over the middle joint, the beam drops again, metal creaking and groaning, about to give way, and you can hear his startled shout clear over the raging inferno below.

 _Bucky, RUN_.

But you can’t speak. You’re too paralyzed by fear as you watch him sprint across the narrow stretch of metal, and it all falls down. The beam finally breaks free under the combination of Bucky’s weight and the rattling of the explosions, and you want to scream as you watch him take a flying leap off the falling metal, outstretched arms grabbing the rails and bringing his already battered chest slamming hard into the metal as he scrabbles to pull himself over and to safety.

He manages it, adrenaline giving him super strength that fades away as soon as his feet are planted safely on the catwalk, upper body draped exhaustedly over the rails. You heave a sigh of relief. Safe. He’s safe.

_Oh, thank God._

But your respite is short lived as you realize that now you have no way of getting across. Bucky realizes it, too, and both your expressions are now masks of fear.

“Gotta be a rope or something!” he shouts to you, voice cracking, expression desperate, and you shake your head, fear fading away to resolve.

“Just go! Get out of here!” you shout, waving him back. He has to get out of here. He has to live. But his response is immediate, vicious, and he slams a hand down on the rail as he screams back, expression almost livid in its stubborn determination.

_“No, not without you!”_

You stop, breathing heavily and look around you.

“Hell…”

You have to do this for him, have to somehow make this work. You bend back the railing, leaving you with a clear shot and back up as far as you can. Time to see what Erskine’s serum can do.

Across the way, you see Bucky brace his arms against the railing, and there’s an odd expression on his face. It’s scared, but mostly the fear is hidden by defiance. Confidence. And you can hear his voice in your head, can _hear_ what he’s thinking.

 _Come on, Steve. You can do this. You_ need _to do this_.

You give a small shake of the head, an “aw, hell here we go” grimace. And as you start forward, running as fast as you can as soon as you can, you watch Bucky. You watch his fierce expression lit by the firestorm below, and, with all the strength and speed you can manage, you jump.

As your feet leave the ground, something else explodes beneath you. You choke down the pain as the flames lick at your legs and torso, even your neck and face, burning small patches of your exposed skin, and you instinctively close your eyes against the heat. Before you can remember that _right, I’m flying through the air and need to see where I’m going_ , your body smashes into the railing, completely plowing through the flimsy metal and into Bucky. You both slam back painfully into the metal grate floor, and you see stars as your head slams into the unpadded interior of your knock-off helmet.

You both lie there, dazed for a few seconds before Bucky’s pawing at you, pulling you into a sitting position and then to your feet.

“Son of bitch, you _son of a bitch!_ ” he’s half-shouting, and you grab onto him as you both run for the door. You body-slam it with everything you’ve got, knocking it clean off the hinges. Cool night air blasts your faces, and, as you slow down and take in a deep breath of the fresh air, Bucky yanks you to the side. A wall of flames rushes through the doorway behind you, the blaze fueled by the sudden influx of new oxygen.

“Thanks,” you pant, and Bucky’s head thumps back against the wall.

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” he returns, coughing and bending forward to brace his hands on his knees to try and catch his breath. Faintly, you can hear the building crumbling beneath you, the foundations giving way, so you take Bucky’s hand in yours without thinking and sprint for the end of the roof.

“Steve, what are you doing?” Bucky asks as you draw nearer and nearer to the edge. His pace starts to slow. “ _Steve_ –”

“Hang on!” you shout as the concrete behind you starts to crack and crumble. And as you pour on more speed in the last ten feet and throw your shield over your shoulder to protect your back, it all clicks in Bucky’s head.

“STEVEN GRANT ROGERS, DON’T YOU FUCKING DA–” The rest of his shout is lost in the wordless scream as you send both of you hurtling off the edge of the roof towards the muddy ground a hundred feet below.

You fucking dared.

Mid-air, you grab Bucky in your arms, twisting around so that your shield-protected back is facing the ground and in a matter of seconds, you feel the spongy earth slam into you, and the world goes black.

It comes back in about ten seconds because hey, apparently that’s what your body can take now, and when you return to the world of the living, Bucky’s straddling you, shaking your shoulders and shouting your name over and over. He’s removed your helmet, and you groan slightly as you feel the mud seeping into your hair.

“STEVE!”

“I’m here, I’m okay,” you cough, and he gets off you as you slowly get to your feet inside your small crater of mud. The moment you’re standing up, you feel something hard slam into your jaw, and you take a small half step backwards, a little dazed more than anything.

“FUCK!” Bucky shouts, cradling his hand, and you realize the ‘something hard’ was your best friend trying to punch you in the face. “You _fucking son of a bitch_ , I can’t even _punch_ you now!”

“You okay?” you ask sheepishly, and he gapes at you.

“Am _I_ okay? Am _I okay_ – you just fucking jumped across a warehouse! Through fire! I am literally _watching_ the burns heal on your face!” he shouts, voice cracking, and he backs away from you, gesturing wildly. About thirty feet behind you, the factory starts collapsing. “And – and then you threw us off a _fucking roof_ , and _you_ – you’re perfectly _fine_ , and you’re asking if _I’m okay?”_ His voice is shaking a little bit on the verge of tears.

 _You’re a freak!_ You can hear it coming. You know that’s what he’s thinking. You look down, take in a deep breath, shoulders hunching defensively as he starts towards you, and brace yourself.

“You’re fucking _awesome_ ,” he laughs, tackling you in a hug and holding onto you like there’s no tomorrow. And after a few stunned seconds, you slowly hug him back, and you’re both laughing, clapping each other on the back. _He’s here. He’s real. He’s okay._ You hear him sniff a few times, and he rests his head against your shoulder. “You son of a bitch…you son of a bitch, it’s _you_. You’re actually here.”

“Yeah, Buck.” You swallow painfully. “I’m here.” His movements slowly lose their buoyant energy, and he goes still against you, adrenaline rush fading. You can feel his breathing grow ragged, and you tighten your arms around him. “It’s over. It’s all over now.” You blink rapidly, looking up at the smoky sky above you as the rest of the HYDRA base slowly starts to crumble in on itself and Bucky’s shoulders start shaking. You gently cup the back of his head and rest your chin on his shoulder. “You’re safe, Buck. It’s over, I promise.”

_I thought no one was coming._

_I thought I’d never see you again._

_I thought I was going to die._

You can read all the thoughts in his head in the way that he holds onto you and silently cries. He only pulls away as the last of the base’s roof caves in with a dull roar, the now-exposed flames making your close distance too hot. He picks up your helmet from the ground and hands it back to you with a hollow laugh.

“What the fuck is this?”

You laugh, taking it from him.

“I’ll fill you in on the way home. Come on.” You put a hand on his back and let it slide to his shoulder, pulling him close. “We should meet up with the others.” He nods silently, wiping away the tears and taking in several deep breaths. “You okay?” He laughs bitterly.

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘m fine.”

“Do…do you want to talk about–”

“ _No._ ” His jaw clenches so tightly you’re scared he’s gonna break his teeth. “No, _never_.”

You squeeze his shoulder, and he looks at you with a pained expression.

“Okay. Never.”

You keep your promise. You never do talk about what happened to him in Krausberg or Azzano for that matter. And you never do notice his fearful hatred of the man you later discover is named Arnim Zola. You pull out the small radio transceiver to call in Carter’s cavalry and swear as you realize it had been shot in the mayhem.

“What’s that?”

“ _That_ was our ride home,” you sigh, and Bucky groans.

“Dammit, Steve, tell me we’re not walking.”

“Sorry.”

He weakly slugs you in the arm, and you exaggeratedly stumble to the side, making him laugh. And you notice with a smile that the moment you and Bucky pull close to the tree line, there are whoops and cheers.

“Sarge, you son of a bitch!” the burly Texan shouts from the top of a captured tank. He drops down and jogs over to you two, tackling Bucky in a bone-crushing hug.

“Dugan – Dugan, get off,” Bucky grunts, trying in vain to push the man off but still laughing a little. “ _Dugan_ , I can’t breathe!”

“Get _off_ of him, Dum Dum,” the British man snaps, voice playfully reprimanding, and the bowler hat-clad man steps back, clapping Bucky’s shoulders. His grin is wide beneath his bushy handlebar mustache.

“I _knew_ you’d make it out of there! Can’t kill a Brooklyn rat.”

“ _Watch it_ , I can still deck you,” Bucky warns before accepting a quick hug from the black man who also climbed down from the tank. “Gabe! Good to see ya, man.”

You marvel at how easily he’s hidden how weak he is, all his pain. You shadow him as he walks over to the others and shakes hands with them, laughing as they pound him on the back. You don’t miss how he flinches at each contact though, and to your relief, neither does the red beret British man.

“Alright, you scoundrels. Let’s give the sergeant some breathing room.” He pushes people back, creating a barrier with his own body, and places a gentle hand on Bucky’s shoulder. For some reason, the small gesture makes you bristle a little.

“I’m fine, Monty,” Bucky protests, but both you and Monty can tell it’s a formality. He gives a small, thankful smile, and turns to you. “Everybody, this is Steve Rogers.”

Suddenly, everyone is looking at you.

“Steve?” a Japanese man asks incredulously, and you’re ashamed at how thrown off you are by his American accent. “This is _your_ Steve?”

“Yeah, Morita, _my_ Steve.” _My Steve._

“ _Minuscule_ Steve?” a Frenchman asks like he’s double-checking, and you don’t need to speak the language to translate that one. You look at your friend in mildly offended disbelief.

“Buck, _seriously?”_ you ask just as he says, “Jacques, come _on_ , man! He can figure out _that much_ French!”

“Oh yeah, that’s his Rogers, all right,” Dugan laughs, and you shake your head as the rest of the guys join in with the Texan. Bucky shrugs and smiles at you apologetically.

“What can I say, man? Last time I saw you, you _were_ a whole head shorter than me.” There’s general laughter, and then Jacques speaks up again.

“Donc, minuscule Steve est devenu le Capitaine Amérique.” He laughs long and hard and pauses to say before laughing again, “D'après ce que vous nous avez dit, je ne serais pas attendu à que!”

Gabe laughs as well, but he’s the only one, and you look to Bucky in question.

“Gabe’s the only one who speaks French,” he explains just as Gabe collects himself.

“Sorry, he said ‘So, tiny Steve became Captain America. From what you told us, I would _not_ have expected that.’”

_Oh no._

Bucky slowly turns to look at you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“ _Captain…America?”_ he asks equally slowly, over-enunciating each word, and you turn red. “Oh, that’s _awesome_.”

“We should get moving,” you say loudly, and Bucky starts cackling as he follows you. “Bucky, you _heard_ Schmidt call me Captain America on the causeway, why is this suddenly news to you _now?”_ He takes in a deep breath and collects himself as everyone starts preparing for the long walk home.

“I wasn’t really paying attention to him,” he says, humor fading quickly, and he clears his throat, looking around at the people before the two of you. “We should put the really sick and injured on the tank or in some of the jeeps you managed to _not_ destroy, Dugan.” He pitches the end of that sentence just loud enough that the Texan walking off into the woods can hear, and the man whoops loudly.

“WAHOO!” You look at Bucky in mild consternation.

“That’s his catch phrase.”

“Ah, of course.”

It takes about a half-hour to organize everybody into a ragtag column on the main road, and you climb up onto the tank to address the hundreds of people before you.

“Alright, the base is about 30 miles away. At a forced march, that’s about eight hours, but with our sick and wounded, it’ll probably take us about ten, maybe eleven hours. I know you’ll want to just burn through this hike home, but we’ve got to take care of each other. We want as many of us to make it back as possible. We’ll take breaks whenever you need them, there’s no pressure to keep going. Sound good?” There’s general chorused agreement, and you gesture forward. “Then let’s go home.”

You jump off the tank and start walking, Bucky falling into step beside you. You had tried to make him ride on one of the trucks, but he’d refused, opting instead to stolidly plod along on his battered legs. You can still hear his response to your pleading loud and clear in your head.

 _Steve_ , _I’ve been lyin’ down too long._

Selfishly you can’t help but be thankful that he refused, because all you can do is stare at his resolute face beside you and smile.

“I know I’m pretty Rogers, but come on. The guys are watching,” he finally teases when he catches you staring, and you knock shoulders with him.

“You jerk, I’m just…I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re here, too, punk.” There’s a pause. “So, about this Captain America business…”

“Oh, God. Buck, no, come on–”

“You’re wearing a stars and stripes uniform under all that, _aren’t_ you?”

“Look, I didn’t have any input on the costuming, the USO people took care of that–"

“Oh my God, _you_ _were a USO chorus girl!”_

“Bucky!”

“Was there a theme song? Come on, there _had_ to be a theme song, what was it?”

“ _No,_ ” you say firmly. “There _wasn’t_ a theme song.”

Behind you, Dugan starts innocently whistling the opening bars to ‘the Star Spangled Man With A Plan,’ and you whip your head around to glare at him. He just grins guilelessly at you and waves.

“Howdy, Cap!”

This is going to be a _long_ walk.

Two hours later he has the whole front half of the column singing the song with him, and Bucky is almost on the forest floor in tears. All you can do is grit your teeth and keep walking, ignoring them all.

 _Correction_ , you think to yourself as you call a company halt an hour later to switch out the less injured people on the tanks and with the wounded still walking. Dugan and his choir of about two hundred people have _finally_ stopped serenading everyone.

 _This is going to be a very,_ very _,_ VERY _long walk._


	2. Live

Over the course of the next three hours of uninterrupted walking, you tell Bucky about what happened to you in detail, but this time you’re trying  _not_ to deliberately piss him off. He listens intently, softly apologizes for what happened to Erskine, and winces as he hears Colonel Phillips’ decision to make you a lab rat.

“You always hated doctors,” he mumbles, and you give a wry smile.

“Well, I’ll never have to go to one again. No more getting stuck with needles, huh?” Bucky goes a little stiff, and your heart sinks. “Aw, shit. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I–”

“So you joined the USO instead, huh?” Your chest aches, but you let him change the subject. “Never took you for the tights and dancin’ kind, Rogers.” You give a hollow laugh.

“I’m not. I’m really not.” You continue talking, tell him about Agent Carter – the only one who ever truly stood up for you or believed in you. You tell him about the USO tours as self-deprecatingly as possible, and you can’t help but feel a little worried when the story can’t make him laugh or smile as much as it would have before all of this happened. Eventually, you get to the camp. To hearing about the 107th. To Agent Carter and Howard Stark helping smuggle you as close to the camp as they can, and to you storming the base.

“You know the rest.” There’s a pause.

“You came after me.” You look at him seriously and nod.

“Yeah, Buck. Always.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says sullenly, increasing his pace a little bit, and you easily match him.

“Buck, what are you talking about? Of course I should have–”

“No!” Bucky half-shouts, turning to look at you, expression twisted and pained. “No, you shouldn’t have! You could have _died!_ You could have gotten captured by that Red Skull freak, and f-fucking Zola would have strapped _you_ down, too and –”

“Buck!” You grab his shoulders and hold him still, the line continuing on forward around you. “Buck, _stop_.” He goes quiet, but you can feel him shaking under your hands. “Who’s Zola?”

“You didn’t even _know_ if I was alive, Steve! You can’t do that!”

“You’re worth that, Bucky.” Your voice sounds a little broken. “You’re worth that risk, you’re worth a life.” _Worth my life_. “I’d do this all over again for you, you _have_ to know that –”

“ _Don’t_ do it again,” he warns. Pushes your hands off, storms away. And you’re left there feeling lost and confused.

“He’ll come around, Captain.” You look around at Monty, and you feel your face flush a little. He claps you on the shoulder, guides you forward with him. “He’s a proud man, but he’ll come around.”

“He’s just scared,” you say softly, and Monty nods.

“Yeah, scared for _you._ ” You look at him, confused. He just smiles knowingly. “We know _all_ about your back alley adventures, Rogers. He’ll always worry about you. He’s just not used to you worrying about him or having to worry about you worrying about him. Not in a world like this.” He sighs, pats your back once more before walking ahead of you. He gives one last line over his shoulder. “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Brooklyn anymore, Captain.”

You walk at that pace, at that position in the column for the next hour before someone asks if you can call a break, so you do. You all set up a small camp, and immediately people start drifting off, exhaustion setting in. You figure out a sentry schedule with those still awake, and after a chaotic half hour you see Bucky walk off towards the edge of camp and sit down heavily between two massive roots. You head to him slowly, taking care to announce your arrival with the rustling of detritus. He looks at you tiredly, and you sit down silently next to him. After a bit, you break the quiet.

“Who’s Zola?”

“I told you I’m not gonna talk about it.”

“No, I…I just mean who _is_ he. Was he the man with Schmidt?” Bucky pauses and then nods. “Okay.” You lightly elbow him with a lopsided smile. “I’ll kick his ass the next time I see him.” He doesn’t even try to smile, and you sigh. “Bucky, what’s wrong?” He laughs at that, picking up a stick and digging it into the ground.

“What _isn’t?”_

“ _Buck_.” He glances at you then back to the ground.

“You’re _different_.” The twig breaks off his in hand, and he lets the pieces fall. His jaw is tightly clenched, and you slump back against the tree. Here it comes. You knew he’d get here eventually, once the craziness and the shock of everything wore off.

“I know.”

“You weren’t _supposed_ to be different.” You close your eyes. “You were supposed to stay the same.” You swallow painfully.

“I know.” You take a full breath of air with perfect lungs – feel your heart beat like a metronome in your chest, the tree and earth beneath your paragon body.

“ _I_ was supposed to change. _I_ was supposed to come home different. But I was supposed to be able to come home to _you._ To that crappy apartment in Brooklyn, to – to _art_ classes and fighting off bullies in alleys and parking lots and shit.”

“I kn –”

“If you _knew_ , then why’d you do it?” he demands. “What the _fuck_ , Steve?”

“I…” _Wanted you to come home. Wanted to help. I wanted, I wanted, I wanted,_ I _want –_ “I was selfish. I was…” Bucky scoffs beside you.

“Damn right you were.” He crosses his arms over his chest, glares at the forest before you both. You’re quiet for a bit.

“You wanna punch me again?”

“Fuck off.”

“Okay.”

Bucky doesn’t sleep the whole two hours you’re camped out. He just stares at the woods with wary eyes, posture deceptively relaxed. You can see the death grip he has on the HYDRA rifle in his hands, and his quickly shifting gaze reminds you of a skittish animal. You have a feeling that he might not sleep like he used to for a long time.

When you all start walking again, you start to notice something a little odd. Bucky seems to be moving easier than he had been at the beginning of the trek, and the bruises that you’d seen on his face and around the bloody injection sites have faded a little. The red points of half-dried blood at their centers look like they’re already scabbed over. You shake your confusion away. It must have been the shock of seeing him after so long. Your mind must have made him look worse off than he actually was. Nothing more. You’re within an hour of being at the base when Bucky breaks your five-hour long silence.

“I’m sorry.”

“Buck, you’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

“No,” he interrupts, waving you away. “No, you risked your life to save me. You… _you_ were being brave. You were being _Steve_. I was just being an ass.” You drape your arm over his shoulders.

“Nah, I wasn’t being Steve Rogers,” you start playfully, and he looked at you dolefully. “I was being Bucky Barnes. But I accept your thanks anyways.” Your friend tries to glare up at you for a few moments before the expression falters.

“Shut up, you punk,” he finally laughs, elbowing you, and you let your arm fall back to your side. “ _I_ wouldn’t have jumped off a roof. You were  _definitely_ being Steve Rogers.” You both laugh, and Bucky continues. “How was Brooklyn when you left?”

“Your sister moved into our old apartment.”

“Is she still with her boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn it. He’s such an ass,” he grumbles, and you smile at the forest floor.

“He’s not _that_ bad.” Bucky just grumbles. You talk some more about innocuous things – the neighbors back home, how Buck’s mom was doing, the cadets that they’d trained with, how much of an ass was Howard Stark _really_ (you vehemently defend your answer of “a lot”). And before you know it, you all can hear the sounds of the Allied camp.

“Ready?” you ask. Bucky just squares his shoulders, holds his head high.

As you approach the gate, you see the rest of the 107th waiting. And as the bar lifts, they all walk out to you, staring in amaze and shock as hundreds of their people and HYDRA jeeps and tanks roll through their front door.

“Look who it is!” someone shouts, and then names are being shouted and people are reuniting. The crowd grows bigger as word spreads throughout the camp that the prisoners are back, that they’ve somehow made it home. And was that the USO idiot up front?

Once the first quarter of the column is inside the camp, the cheering and applause starts.

Phillips walks up to you, and you give him a quick salute, standing at attention. All of your previous snark is gone. You’re simply respectful.

“Some of these men need medical attention.” Behind you, you hear a man call for a medic and the doctors start directing people to their tents. “I’d like to surrender myself for disciplinary action.”

“That won’t be necessary,” your Colonel returns and gives you a small smile that you discretely return.

“Yes, sir.” He turns away from you to Carter who’s got a smug sort of quirk to her lips.

“Faith, huh?” She ignores him and instead walks up to you, standing practically on your toes and looking up into your face in playful challenge.

“You’re _late_.” You pull out the half-destroyed transceiver and hold it up in the same manner.

“Couldn’t call my ride.” She looks between it and you and gives a slow smirk.

“Hey!” Everyone quiets slightly at the shout, and you look to Bucky in mild surprise. He continues, expression serious yet good-humored, and his eyes are locked with yours, blazing with something intense. “Let’s hear it for Captain America!”

 _Seriously?_ you silently ask him.

He responds with a quirk of his eyebrow and a wry smile as the gathered troops start cheering and clapping and suddenly dozens of people are clapping you on the back, touching your arms, and you look back to Peggy Carter standing before you. And this…this feels right, you think. Out of the corner of your eye, though, you see that Bucky is still watching the two of you, smiling tensely, and nodding to himself. And then, his stiff expression slowly morphs into something akin to anger and…was that hate?

You feel like you should be concerned. That you should talk to him. But then you’re looking into Agent Carter’s face, and you’re gone.

About a week later, after you’ve become an honorary Captain and passed on all the knowledge you know to Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter, he brings up the idea of a task force. Tells you that he’s prepared to outfit the best of the best to be a strike team that answers to you and you alone. In fact, he’s already started making a list.

“With all due respect, sir,” you say, “so am I.”

And so it is you find yourself sitting across from Bucky’s friends in a bar in London, waiting for their response to your proposition.

“So, let’s get this straight,” Dugan begins, slamming his half-downed pint down on the table, and Gabe picks up his thought.

“We barely got out of there alive, and you want us to go _back?”_

“…pretty much.”

“Sounds rather fun, actually,” Monty says with a smile, fiddling with the button on his cuff. Morita lets out a burp and you look to him, bemused.

“I’m in.” You look to the other side of the table as passionate French carries through the loud interior to you.

“Moi, je combattrai, jusqu’a ce que le dernier de ces bâtards soient morts, enchaînés ou bien pleurent comme un petit bébé!” Gabe turns to him with a mischievous smile.

“J’espere que ce sera tous les trois.”

“Moi aussi!” They laugh loudly, shake hands, and Gabe looks around at everyone’s confused, expectant expressions. He gestures between him and Dernier.

“We’re in.”

You shift your gaze to Dugan, an excited smile starting to pull at your mouth.

“Hell, I’ll always fight. But you got to do one thing for me.”

“What’s that?” You’re amused and watch as he downs the last of his pint before answering you.

“Open a tab.” They laugh, and you gather up the glasses, heading to the bar.

“Well, _that_ was easy,” you hear Morita chuckle as you ask the thoroughly bewildered and a little frustrated bartender for yet _another_ round.

Well, the five of them are on board – Major James “Monty” Montgomery Falsworth, Private James “Jim” Morita, Private Gabriel “Gabe” Jones, French resistance fighter Jacques Dernier, and Sergeant Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan.

That leaves one more to convince. And as you walk towards him, you sigh. He’s sitting away from everyone else, alone at the bar when once he would have been at the center of the action and the noise. At least he’s facing you, grinning widely, body relaxed from all the alcohol he’s been drinking.

“See? I _told_ you,” he crows, turning on his stool to face forward as you walk around him and sit down on the stool to his left. “They’re _all_ idiots.” He scoffs into his glass and takes a sip of his whiskey.

“How ‘bout you?” You’re playful, but as you look at him, you see he isn’t – or at least, not as light-hearted as you. “You ready to follow _Captain America_ into the jaws of death?”

There’s no pause, no hesitation before his answer, and you feel your heart start to sink.

“Hell, no.” When he continues, it’s in a sigh, voice as tired as his slumped posture as he rests his forearms on the bar and leans his whole weight on them. “That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight…” He looks at you, and there’s something tired and earnest in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. The utter simplicity in the way he speaks, and he gives that same tight smile. “I’m following him.”

You look at him, really look. He’s ragged. His uniform is no longer polished and neat – his tie is missing, his hat is who knows where. He still looks a little dirt-smudged even though you know he’s clean. His shoulders are slumped, back bent. He looks like he just got back from a long day at the docks and then had to fight off the six-foot-tall guy you decided to piss off on your way home. His eyes…his eyes look ancient.

 _I’m following him_.

He takes a drink, and you give him a quick reflexive smile, suddenly feeling horribly guilty. He must be able to tell because he taps you on the shoulder with a tipsy hand.

“But you’re keeping the outfit, right?” You almost scoff, give him an amused look.

“You know what?” You glance at the poster of the USO Captain America of your past. “It’s kinda growing on me.” Bucky laughs and is about to say something when the singing and piano go quiet in the next room, and Peggy Carter walks in, dressed head to toe in crimson red.

“Captain.”

“Agent Carter.” She walks over to you, and you see Bucky immediately size her up, looking her up and down as she passes him.

“Ma’am.” She ignores him, but you see him still staring at her.

“Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning?”

“Sounds good.”

She looks over her shoulder to where your team is drinking themselves senseless, and you can’t help but look her over, heart in your throat. You’ve had a soft spot for Agent Carter for a while now, and based off the looks she’s giving you, it’s not one-sided. Unseen by you, Bucky looks between you and her, and his expression slowly crumbles. He looks to the floor, defeated.

“I see your top squad is prepping for duty.”

“You don’t like music?” Bucky asks, and there’s an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice.

“I do, actually.” She never breaks eye contact with you as she speaks, even though she’s answering Bucky. “I might even, once this is all over, go dancing.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” The aggression is slightly more prominent now, but you don’t pay him any mind. You just continue to stare at Peggy, completely in love.

“The right partner. 0800, Captain.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.” And with that she leaves. You look to Bucky scoldingly, but he just gives a dry, brittle laugh, looking anywhere but at you.

“I’m invisible. I’m turning into you, it’s–” A cruel scoff. “It’s a horrible dream.”

“Don’t take it so hard.” You clap him on the shoulder and tease, “maybe she’s got a friend.”

He shakes his head as he turns after you, and you don’t stop to think that maybe…maybe he wasn’t talking about Agent Carter.

You sit back down and continue talking, and he eventually makes a joke about something you can’t remember. You laugh, embarrassed, into the pint between your hands. Beside you, Bucky watches you with a forlorn smile and love in his eyes, because, like he said, he’s invisible.

You’ll never notice. You’ll never figure it out. It’s always when your back is turned or you’re looking away that he watches you like this. It’s when you make him invisible that he needs you to see.

The next day, you go and talk to Howard on your own first, and so it is you pick your shield and you hand off your uniform sketches to him. It’s also when you manage to royally screw up with Agent Carter and get shot at by her because, let’s be honest, you were kind of being an ass.

At 1200 hours, you present your mostly hung-over team to Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter who still stares at you in stony silence. Bucky, you notice, seems smug and highly amused by this turn of events. Your superiors are hardly impressed by your lineup until you have each team member present their qualifications and skills – with Gabe translating for Dernier – and they realize that you actually do have the best of the best right here. Dernier’s ability to create bombs out of seemingly nothing will be particularly useful. Reluctantly, Phillips approves your crackpot team and leaves with Agent Carter, and the moment the door closes behind them, Morita throws up on the floor.

“Damn your tab, Cap,” he groans, and Dugan just claps him on the back, somehow bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“Oh, come on, Jimmy-boy–”

“ _Don’t_ call me that.”

You and Bucky share a smirk over everyone’s heads, and that’s that.

Howard Stark starts getting everybody’s input for weaponry and outfits, and you smile to yourself as you watch Bucky struggle to stay mad at Stark and ultimately give up as the scientist shows him all the stuff he’s working on. Because at heart, you know Bucky is a total sucker for technology and anything within the realm of science fiction, regardless of how much radiation you douse his best friend in. You think back to the World Exposition of Tomorrow.

That _had_ been his idea.

Within the next few days, everybody gets their weapons and their outfits and as everyone walks out of Stark’s lab you can’t help the smile that comes onto your face. It’s like everyone is wearing armored and accessorized versions of the clothes they’d been wearing when you met them. And then, in the back of the group, you see Bucky.

He’s completely changed his outfit. He’s wearing dark brown paratrooper pants and a double-breasted navy blue coat adorned with the wings from your helmet on the upper left arm. There’s an enhanced sniper rifle slung over his shoulder and a handgun in an under-arm-holster on his right side. He looks cleaner than he has in a while, and there’s a cold sharpness to his eyes, an expert edge to the swagger to his step. The Bucky who hugged you goodbye at the docks is still there – a glimmer beneath this new façade. But it’s a glimmer, and a very faint one at that.

Until he cracks a smile, holds his arms out to the sides, and asks how he looks. There he is. There’s the man you knew. Everyone horses around a bit, making fun of each other and examining everyone’s new gear and clothes, and then Agent Carter comes in with your first assignment as well as the small army of infantry men you’ll be taking with you.

It’s a HYDRA base stationed on occupied farmland – the first of many that you and your team will take down in rapid succession – and you all go in, guns blazing. Armed with Stark’s equipment and emboldened by Dugan’s _Wahoo_ war cry, you take the place down almost effortlessly. Somehow, despite having never worked together, you all fit flawlessly together. Everyone complements each other easily, working in tandem to guard each other’s backs while going on the offensive at the same time. It takes about four hours to completely wipe out the base, and when Dernier holds up the detonator and a thumbs up, you all bail. Monty lays down cover fire while the rest of your team hauls ass out of the building, and you jump onto your motorcycle, staying until the last second to make sure the explosives aren’t touched.

And as you peel out on your bike to look at the building behind you, it explodes, crumbling down to the ground in smoldering flames, and Dugan starts whooping again, the others joining in. You just smile breathlessly and look to Bucky to see his reaction.

He’s just standing there, staring at the burning wreckage with a small smile on his face and vengeance in his eyes, and you clap him on the shoulder, drawing him out of the memories he was no doubt slipping back into. He nods once at you in thanks, and you regain your crew’s attention.

Sometimes, they really reminded you of a bunch of kindergarteners.

As you’re heading home you stop to make camp, and Gabe asks the question that’ll define this part of your life forever.

“So what do we call ourselves? You know, now that we’re a team.”

“The furious seven!” Dugan throws in and is met with a loud chorus of disgust and “NO!”

“Well, we can’t call ourselves the Yankees, _Monty and Dernier_ ,” Morita complains, laying playful annoyance on your teammates’ names.

“Strike team?” Gabe offers only to be rebutted by Monty.

“Strike _force_.”

“The Commandos.” Everyone looks to Bucky, suddenly silent. Their eyes have lit up, and you feel your heart beat a little faster because it sounds _so right._

“You’re onto something there, Sarge,” Dugan muses, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. “But it needs something more, something with a little more _ferociousness_.” Your mind is racing, running through every adjective you can think of until you think back to the raid you just carried out.

To just how _loud_ you’d all been, from the roar of your motorcycle to your enhanced weaponry to Dernier’s bombs to even Dugan’s incessant _WAHOO_ -ing. 

And you have it.

“The Howling Commandos.” You look around at everyone and slowly grin. “We’re the Howling Commandos.” You listen as the guys mutter it to themselves, trying out the name on their tongues and seemingly liking what they hear.

“The Howling Commandos, it is,” Bucky grins, and immediately Morita throws his head back and howls. You laugh and cover your face in embarrassment as pretty soon all the guys around you are howling like goddamn idiots, laughing and slapping each other on the back, their happy expressions lit up by the fire you’re all gathered around. And when you finally give in to Bucky’s playful elbowing and howl once with them, you can only think one thing.

_The Howling Commandos. I’m finally where I belong. I’m a Howling Commando._

Your next mission, you’re leading everyone through a foggy, snow-covered forest, trying to ambush a HYDRA base in the misty cover. Your senses are working overtime, and you hear the slight creak of leather against wood high above your heads. You pivot on your heel and hurl your shield at a densely branched tree, and there’s a heavy bang as Vibranium connects with flesh and bone and a HYDRA sentry falls to the ground, out cold. You charge the base. You lose some men; it’s inevitable. But the base falls, and your Commandos come through unscathed yet again. You can’t help but feel a swell of pride as you look over them, and as always, Bucky walks over to you and stands on your left, hands resting on his belt.

The next time you infiltrate a base, you use Dernier. You’re waiting for a heavily armored tank to drive down the main road, and Morita whistles from where he’s stationed further down to let you know it’s finally coming. Taking a deep breath, Dernier picks up the explosive charge he made, runs out into the road in front of the tank, dives under it, and attaches the live payload to its underbelly as it passes over him. He quickly jumps to his feet and sticks his fingers in his ears, and by the time the tank starts to slow down, it explodes. Dernier claps once, looking at you all with a huge grin.

Dugan laughs, and you look to Bucky with a small grin on his face. He shrugs.

“What can I say? The little man loves explosives.”

This continues. This process of infiltration and destruction, and it becomes so second nature to you all that you start to slip.

As you’re walking through the wreckage of the latest base you destroyed, you fail to notice the HYDRA soldier leveling his rifle at your head, high above you on a half-destroyed parapet. That is, until a gunshot rings out, and the man’s head snaps backwards, body crumpling forward to drape lifelessly over the broken wall and shards of rebar.

Heart suddenly pounding mercilessly in your throat, you quickly look to wherever the shot had come from and see the light glinting off of Bucky’s sniper rifle. You take in a deep breath and salute him. The only response you get is the glint of the sun off his weapon as he picks it up and moves to a new location.

 _Shit_. _Right_. _I_ need _to stop giving away my sniper’s position._

“Really, Steve?!” he calls to you, exasperated, as you decide the base is well and truly dead and head over to him. “Every time! Every goddamn time I save your ass, you point me out!” You cringe.

“Sorry, Buck. I keep forgetting.”

“Every time you do that I have to move, Steve. Do you know how much this thing weighs?” You open your mouth. “ _Don’t_ answer.” He shakes his head and finally laughs, slinging his arm around your shoulders. “You may be big and strong now, Rogers, but you’re still shit at the basics.”

“That’s what I’ve got you for.” He rolls his eyes, still grinning, and you start the trek back home.

You do dozens more of these missions. The seven of you become closer than ever, a band of brothers, and every night before you drift off to sleep, Bucky sets up his bedroll beside yours. You never think twice about it. All you can think about is how far you’ve come, the things you’ve done. Hell, once, in an awesome joint move with Monty, you blew up a goddamn _tank_ the size of a city block.

A year later, you’ve all but cleared the board of HYDRA bases. There’s just the one left. That one big central base that isn’t on any map you’ve found, that HYDRA soldiers commit suicide over to keep a secret. And it seems that, finally, you’ve found a weak link in Schmidt’s chain of secrecy. And you’d be lying if you said that there wasn’t a personal element to this assignment.

Arnim Zola.

Based off reports you got off a HYDRA radio you stole from one of the bases you took, you discovered that the German scientist would be traveling on a HYDRA supply train through the Alps. No massive guard. No Schmidt. No Tesseract. Just him and maybe a handful of goons to make sure he got there safe.

The perfect heist conditions.

The night before the mission, you’re all camping out in the woods. You make a very, _very_ small fire – you’re too close to the railroad for anything bigger – and the snow is really making your lives difficult because it’s so cold you might as well not even _have_ the thing burning. So you all do the only thing you can do: you huddle together around the fire, relying on the minimal heat from the low flames and each others’ bodies to stay warm.

Bucky immediately lies down beside you, like he has every night, except this time you’re pressed against each other. A plus side of the super soldier serum is that you tend to run a little hot due to your heightened metabolism, so you can keep Bucky pretty warm on your own. You throw an arm across his stomach and pillow your head against his shoulder. His arm curves up around you to rest on your back.

“Night, Buck” you whisper to the dark and feel Bucky inhale slowly. He pats your shoulder once, and you feel his chin rest against the top of your head. His tired voice rumbles lowly in your ear.

“Night, Steve.”

You fall asleep to the feeling of your best friend’s body rising and falling beneath you, and you smile because this is so familiar. And you thank god that you have this moment, this shadow of a memory from a more innocent time that seems so long ago to you now.

Tomorrow…

Tomorrow will just be another day in this new world, in this new adventure that you’re tackling together.

 _This_ has _to be one of the crazier things the Commandos have done_ , you realize as you look at the rocky, dangerous mountains around you.

You’re standing on a crag that’s really not all that big and covered in snow, staring down at the narrow tracks that hug close to the mountainside far below you. About an hour ago you’d used a harpoon gun that Howard had designed specifically for this job to shoot a heavy, long cable from where you are standing now to the mountainside above the railroad tracks. Then, you’d driven the end of the cable on your side deep into the rock where “it wouldn’t come out unless an avalanche crashed down on the entire cable all at once.

Or at least, that’s what Stark said. The flying car is still _very_ fresh in your mind.

You’ve been standing up here in the wind and snow for an hour now, just waiting. You can hear the radio static behind you as Morita tunes in the different stations and Gabe translates the German chatter into commands and times and places. Somewhere someone is giving commands concerning Zola’s train. They just need to find it. Monty is standing on the very edge of the cliff to your left, scanning the tracks with binoculars. There’s a tense furrow to his brow, and you know he’s feeling the same nervousness as you. To your right, Dugan is standing perilously close to the edge, checking everyone’s six to make sure that no one is coming up behind you all in an ambush. He’s gripping his shotgun tightly, and you try once more to swallow down the butterflies crowding up your throat.

Bucky…Bucky’s where he always is. On your left, resolutely staying by your side. You’re both staring at the long cable stretching out below you, swaying in the strong wind.

“Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?” Your butterflies seem to get worse, and you grimace slightly as you continue to stare into the abyss.

“Yeah, and I threw up?”

“This isn’t payback, is it?” Bucky asks in a way that says he knows it is, all of this is payback for the things he’s done to you in your eventful lives.

“Now, _why_ would I do that?” you ask, smirking at him, and he laughs, shaking his head ruefully. You smile, and your anxiety is gone. And as you look at him, you can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding creeping into your mind. Can’t help the thought that whispers _hold onto him._ You try to shake it away, but you still feel like something’s about to go wrong. That this moment right here is the calm before the storm.

You shake it off. You’ve done a hundred missions. This is a standard op. You’ll be fine, there’s nothing to worry about.

“We were right. Dr. Zola’s on the train.” You and Bucky turn in sync to look over to Gabe, and you can feel Bucky start to tense beside you as you both walk over. “HYDRA dispatcher gave him permission to open up the throttle. Wherever he’s going, they must need him bad.”

You look to Bucky, a question in your eyes, and he nods to himself as you pull on your helmet and start towards the edge. He follows you a couple seconds later, and Monty looks down from his binoculars as Gabe grabs the pulleys he, you, and Bucky will be using to slide down the cable.

“Let’s get going, because they’re moving like the devil.” His voice is tense, but you pay it no mind. After all, what you’re about to do is a little insane.

“We only got about a 10-second window,” you say as you attach the pulley and grab onto the handles. “You _miss_ that window…we’re bugs on a windshield.”

“Mind the gap,” Monty warns as Bucky and Gabe line up behind you, ready to follow as soon as you leave the outcrop.

“Better get moving, bugs!” Dugan shouts in his morbid humor, and you almost laugh.

For a brief moment, everything is still, the only noise the rattling of the train below. Then…

“Aller!” Dernier shouts, and you go.

The wind whips past you, stinging your cheeks with snow and cold, and you hear the Frenchman continue the count as the other two members of your Commandos jump after you, the pulleys rasping across the icy zip line as you hurtle towards the black bullet train below. You drop once you’re about five feet above the train, and your feet hit the slick metal. About three seconds later you hear another set of feet land and then another. You quickly glance over your shoulder, and Bucky and Gabe give you quick thumbs up.

This was it. Routine. Simple.

You quickly move to the nearest ladder and outside door, quickly opening it up while Gabe stands guard. He’ll continue moving on to the front of the train via the roof while you and Bucky move on through the inside. Because while Gabe is a good shot, Bucky is definitely better. And he and you work together like you’re one person, so ultimately, the two of you dealing with the armed goons is a better option than you and Gabe or Bucky and Gabe.

The car you enter is empty save for two shelves loaded with munitions crates, and as far as you can see, the next carriage is empty, too. That small, creeping feeling of doubt starts to worm its way into your head, but you push it out. You head into the next car, Bucky lagging behind you by about six feet.

 _Routine. Simple_.

And the moment you’re in the next car, the heavy doors slide shut and seal. Bucky’s eyes widen in fear, and he slams up against the metal and glass.

_No. No, no, no –_

You bang on the metal and frantically look for a handle as the door at the other end of Bucky’s car opens and soldiers start coming in. He spins around and starts firing, trying to find cover in the mostly empty carriage, and you want to shout and break down the door, but you can’t because now you’re not alone either. You spin around to see a ridiculously armored goon come marching in, some kind of Tesseract plasma cannons attached to each arm, and you realize you are in big trouble.

You duck for cover, and your eyes widen as you see just how insanely powerful this new weapon is.

“Stop him!” You look up as Zola’s voice comes over the PA. “Fire again!”

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT._

Trap. It was all a trap. And Bucky, Bucky was alone in the next car against who knows how many people, and you’re pinned down here trying to figure out how to battle someone armed with a weapon that can literally _disintegrate you_ and is blasting holes in the _steel_ walls –

You can still hear the rapid tattoo fire of Bucky’s rifle, but then it goes silent, and the absence of the sound gives you the incentive you need. You duck out from your cover and propel yourself forward on the crane type device over head, slamming your feet into the goon’s chest. Once he’s on the ground, you jump on top of him, slamming your shield into his face.

He’s out cold. You think. But you have no time to check – you have to get to Bucky.

You lift up the deadweight cannon arm and fire the weapon, blasting open the first door leading to the other car and run, quickly looking through the glass portal of the second in time to see Bucky pull the trigger on an empty clip. Machine gun fire tears apart the metal around him, narrowly missing him each time, and you can see the fear in his eyes as he realizes he’s trapped. You quickly open the door and toss him your handgun before charging the goon and knocking a munitions crate towards him. In an instinctive move to avoid the metal case hurtling at him, the soldier steps out to the side.

Right into Bucky’s headshot.

And finally, the car is quiet. Your shaky breaths are surprisingly loud in the ringing silence, and you turn to Bucky as he walks over to you. He’s glaring down at the man who almost killed him, and his breathing is still a little unsteady.

“I had him on the ropes,” he grouses, and you smirk at the familiar words.

“I know you did.”

 _Routine. Simple_.

Then, you hear the familiar sound of the Tesseract cannon powering up behind you.

“GET DOWN!” You barely have time to grab Bucky and step in front of him before you’re blasted backwards, the pulse ricocheting off your shield and ripping open the side of the train like a peeled-open can. The shield is torn from your grasp, and you crash into the wall and to the ground several feet away from it, dazed.

_Bucky. Where’s Bucky?_

“Fire again!” Zola’s voice shouts, and you struggle to get to your feet. _“Kill him! Now!”_

What you see next will haunt you forever.

Bucky picks up your shield, swinging the heavy metal disc in front of himself with no hesitation. In an attempt to replicate a move he’s seen you do so many times before, he tries to shoot the HYDRA goon down as he starts forward, and you open your mouth to scream a warning to tell him to run as the weapon powers up again –

“NO!” you shout as the cannon blast slams into your shield, and Bucky – stupid, brave, _normal_ Bucky who doesn’t have the super soldier strength to handle the recoil, who doesn’t have the super soldier strength to withstand a weapon like this – goes flying out the ripped open side of the train.

You pick up your fallen shield and hurl it with everything you have into the man, knocking him clean back into the other car. You don’t bother to check on him, don’t both to catch your shield, you just sprint for the wrecked side of the train, ripping off your helmet as you go. He had to have grabbed onto something. He _had to_ , he –

He’s still there. Oh my god, he’s still there, hanging onto the far railing at the end of the ripped back part of the wall.

“Bucky!” you scream, grabbing onto the railing and trying to climb out onto the dangling debris. He looks at you, fear in his eyes, and tries to move towards you, tries to get closer, and that’s when you see that the end of the railing closest to you isn’t fastened to the train anymore. It’s hanging on by one screw, and every time Bucky moves towards you, it comes a little closer to breaking free. Your heart goes still.

_No._

“Hang on!” _Don’t move_ is what you mean, and you try to move faster, but there’s nothing for you to really hold on to, nothing for you to move quickly on.

 _Crack_.

The end of the railing breaks free completely, and Bucky scrabbles, desperately reaching out to you as he starts to drop. Under his weight, the fastenings at the center of the rail begin to creak, groan, and pull free.

“Grab my hand!” You’re pleading, begging. And he is, too. He’s begging with every failed, frantic attempt to grab onto you. You’re too far, there’s too much space.

You reach out to him, struggling to get closer. You have to be able to do this. You have to. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve become, everything you’ve learned – it has built up to this. To this moment, right here, right now. To you and Bucky on the side of this train on the side of this mountain, hurtling at a hundred miles per hour, snow and ice and wind tearing past you as jagged rocks and spear-like trees race by beneath your feet. To you straining to reach out to him, finding impossible footholds in the folded patterns of the walls and barely holding yourself up with fingers slipping on your own rail. To him looking up at you, terrified, struggling to inch close enough to grab onto your splayed hand. The wind whips his brown hair into his blue eyes – wide with fear. He looks so pale...as pale as the snow surrounding you both.

Everything that you’ve become – Captain America, Captain Rogers, the super soldier, whatever the fuck people want to call you – has come to this. To saving James Buchanan Barnes. _This_ is your purpose. _This_ is why you’re here. _This_ is why everything that has happened has happened. You _have to_ _save_ James Buchanan Barnes.

 _CRACK_.

The middle fastening breaks free, and Bucky’s eyes widen. And the split second that follows feels like an eternity.

An eternity in which you memorize every detail of this moment.

You memorize every line of the train, your vertigo from the speed, your nausea from fear and adrenaline. You memorize how hard your heart is pounding, how hard you’re breathing. You memorize the metallic taste of the air on your tongue as you open your mouth to scream. You memorize the smell of the pine trees. You memorize the rattling of the train around you both; the death beat of the tracks thumping beneath you. You memorize every part of the scorched and ragged metal you’re clinging to. You memorize the burn in all of your muscles, the micro-tearing in all your tendons and ligaments as you struggle to hold this position – reaching out to Bucky with your left hand, your whole body stretched out behind it to try and grab him. You memorize the way your right hand starts to slip off the rail behind you. You memorize the fibers of Bucky’s jacket, the worn leather of his holsters. You memorize the flakes of snow caught in his hair and the way the wind is tangling the normally neat locks into a frantic mess. You memorize the way his hand is reaching out for you, how close it is. It’s _inches_ away. You memorize the callouses on his palm and fingers. You memorize the tears in his blue eyes, the horrorstruck realization in his angular face. His face that now has you flashing backwards in time like a goddamn flip book of the story of him and you until you’re left staring at a twelve year old with a gap toothed pirate smile and a newsboy cap.

A split second.

 ** _“NO!”_** You lunge forward. Something breaks in your shoulder. And for a _split second_ you have him. You feel his fingers against yours, clawing to grab ahold of you. _You have him_.

And then, your heart stops as the rest of the railing rips away and his hand is gone.

Bucky’s scream echoes in your ears louder than anything that you’ve ever heard before. Louder than HYDRA tanks, than buildings imploding, than military airfields, than shells exploding right next to you. It rips through you more brutally than knives, than shrapnel, than bullets.

His scream cuts you to your very bone a thousand times over as _Bucky_ is ripped away from you, plummeting to the jagged ground below and reaching out for you, still screaming, the whole time he falls. The train whips around a corner just as he’s about to hit the ground, and all you see is a spray of white, and just like that–

He’s gone.

_No…_

You’re in a daze, staring down at the passing landscape as your breathing starts to hitch and speed up at the same time.

 _What just happened? What_ happened _, what–_

 _He fell. He fell, Bucky_ fell _–_

But you _had him_. You _had him_ , you _felt him –_

_You dropped him._

You slowly bow your head against the railing you’re barely holding onto, and you distantly realize you’ve started to sob. You’re slowly freezing as you cling to the wreckage, sobbing and crying, and you know your muscles are about to give out, that you can’t keep up this position much longer, but you can’t move. You can’t move because Bucky… _Bucky_ …

Slowly, agonizingly, you pull yourself back inside the train car, and the moment you’re inside, you slam down onto all fours and throw up. It feels like ages since you’ve done that, since you’ve felt even remotely sick enough to vomit. You fall back against the opposite wall so you’re staring at the picturesque mountain range as the train continues to rattle on. It looks so peaceful, so calm, so beautiful, and you feel _gutted._ You sit there for several long minutes until you catch sight of your shield where Bucky had dropped it. Your gaze slowly slides from it to the still unconscious HYDRA goon, and a rage that you’ve never felt before in your life starts to burn in your chest. You shakily get to your feet and stumble over to the shield. It feels heavier than usual in your hands, and you turn almost drunkenly towards the man on the ground. He starts to move slightly, and you start towards him. Your movements are slow and deliberate, and you ease yourself down onto your knees so you’re straddling his legs.

And at an almost ceremonious pace, you lift the shield above your head and wait there until the man comes to and looks at you. And then, expression a flat mask with fury in your eyes, you bring it slamming down into his chest with all the strength and anger and hurt and _pain_ you can muster. The man screams and gurgles, and through your hiccupping tears you watch the blood pooling up around the edges of your shield. You’d driven the vibranium through the armor and into his body, and mercifully the man dies quickly. You don’t pull the shield out. Instead you get up and stagger away from him, returning to your seat against the wall.

You slowly draw your legs up to your chest. Lock your arms around them. Your head drops down onto your knees. Your heart froze in your chest the moment…the moment _he_ fell, and you realize now it hasn’t started again. You slowly let one leg down to the floor, and your arms thud to the ground beside you. Your head rests back against the rattling metal, and you watch the cold world go by, the icy wind howling a name that hurts to even _think_. You keep expecting him to climb back inside, to yell at you for being an ass and dropping him, to crack a joke and smile. You keep expecting him to walk through the car door with that swagger and lopsided grin. You keep expecting him and Dugan to jump in and laugh about how it was all a practical joke while Monty smacks them both upside the head and lectures them for an hour on appropriate humor.

But none of that happens.

What happens is the mountains keep racing by. The air grows colder, the rattling car darker. The reality starts to set in as the tears freeze to your cheeks, and when the train comes to a stop at the pick-up point you’d established with Agent Carter at the start of all of this, Gabe comes to find you. He makes no comment on the brutally killed HYDRA goon in the doorway or the puddle of sick four feet in front of you. He just kneels before you and puts a hand on your shoulder as you continue to stare through him to a mountain range that’s no longer there.

“Come on, Cap,” he says gently. “The guys are waiting outside.” You make no move to answer or get up. “Cap…” Gabe stops and sighs. “ _Steve_.” You slowly look at him, expression vacant and numb. “C’mon.” His voice shakes. “Sarge’s orders.” You slowly let him help you up.

“Bucky…he…” Gabe just rubs your back as he unsteadily answers.

“I know. I saw.” _Right. He was on the roof._ You reflexively pick up your helmet and put it on, walking over to the goon’s corpse to take back your shield. “Took everything I had not to blow Zola’s head off.” Your hands rest on its edge. Your voice is quiet, a dead whisper that rasps loudly in the silence of the car.

“You did better than me.” And with a quick jerk, you tear the weapon free and slowly fasten it to your arm. “Come on.” You clear your throat. “I, uh…I have to file an incident report.” You wipe at your eyes and take a deep breath as you walk towards the ripped open side of the train and dismount.

“Ha _ha_ , _there’re_ my boys!” Dugan shouts, throwing his hands triumphantly up in the air as you and Gabe start towards them. Half-congealed blood runs across the surface of your shield in crimson rivulets as you walk over, and you look at the four men waiting with smiles on their faces. You can see Peggy standing behind them. “We pulled off a train heist, bugs! How ‘bout that? We’re certified cowboys now!”

You don’t smile. You don’t say anything. Don’t even nod. You feel raw and exposed. And as they take in Gabe’s and your expressions, your slumped shoulders and half-dead posture, their smiles start to fade. And as you finally join them, Dugan asks the question you’ve been dreading. His voice is doggedly innocent, a fading smile still on his face, like he knows what you’re going to say and doesn’t want to believe it.

“Where’s Barnes?”

“He, uh…he…” Gabe stops, running a hand over his face, and you continue walking, brushing past them.

“No.” There’s a pause like Dugan’s waiting for the great punch line, and you want to start crying again. “Nuh-uh, _not_ Barnes!”

“ _Dugan_ …” Gabe begs, but the Texan violently shakes his head, jabbing Gabe in the chest with a pointed finger as he speaks.

“No! _Not_ Barnes! Not… _not_ that kid.” He throws his hat to the station floor, hands at the back of his head as he turns away. _“Shit!”_

“Rogers,” Monty begins sympathetically, voice hushed and stricken, but you just keep walking.

Morita puts his hand on your shoulder. Dernier slowly takes off his hat and bows his head. And all you can do is grit your teeth as tears burn your eyes to the point of blindness. You come to a stop before the blur you know to be Agent Carter, and your voice sounds odd to your ears – like you’re underwater. Thankfully, she doesn’t touch you.

“I have to file an incident report.”

_Routine. Simple._

You die that day.


	3. Die

You file the report once you’re back in London and in your military uniform. It’s simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing you’ve ever done because on the one hand you remember everything in crystalline detail. You don’t have to dwell on it that much, don’t have to think on it for hours to remember exactly what happened. But on the other hand… _you remember everything._ You remember everything because you can’t _not._ You go through the debriefing in silence, speaking only when you absolutely have to. Every time you blink, you see Bucky screaming and falling, reaching up for you as he…

As he dies.

 _Dies_.

It hits you like a fucking tank.

As he _dies._ He’s _dead_. Bucky’s _dead–_

“I need to go.” You stand up abruptly, cutting off Phillips mid-sentence, and quickly head for the door. The Commandos are watching you with pain-filled eyes, and Phillips doesn’t say anything, just looks at the reports in his hands. Carter looks like she’s going to get up and go after you, but the Colonel gives her a discreet hand gesture telling her to stay seated. To let you go. And for once you’re thankful to the man for something. Because right now you feel like you could scream if one other person tries to talk to you.

You leave the room. Leave the hall, the wing – hell, the whole _base_ – and you find yourself walking in a London you don’t recognize. The last time you were here, this whole block was filled with life and bustling with people. Now…

Now it’s a bombed out shell. Most of the buildings are nothing more than charred rubble. There’s a blackout in effect, so all the windows and doors of the houses still standing are covered in heavy black curtains, cardboard, and dark paint, preventing the escape of even the smallest glimmer of light. It feels like the city is in mourning, and you let out a long, unsteady breath as broken glass crunches under your feet.

The streets are filled with rubble – wood and bricks and metal, anything and everything. And as you walk amongst the ruins you find yourself heading towards the bar from so long ago where all of this started. The bar where the Howling Commandos had been born. The bar where you’d had your last normal night, your last pint with…

You hesitate on the trashed and cluttered sidewalk. At first you’re not sure if you have the right place, but then you give a hollow, semi-delirious laugh because yes, _of course_ you do. First off, you have eidetic memory, so this is definitely the place. And second…

Of course it would have been bombed. Of course it would have been gutted by flames, the heavy wood interior charred and painted black with broken windows and splintered chairs and counters and rafters…of course it would have been destroyed. It looks how you feel, and you slowly make your way through the door, gingerly stepping over the exposed spikes of rebar and glass.

This…this was the room where you’d recruited the guys. You can barely recognize it now, but if you close your eyes and focus you could recreate it all. The smells, the tastes, the colors, the _voices_ , everyone’s faces, the pianist’s playing, the _singing_ – you could make it all come back. All you had to do was close your eyes, and it would all be back. You could turn the clock back, everything would be _fine –_

_“So, let’s get this straight,” Dugan begins, slamming his half-downed pint down on the table, and Gabe picks up his thought._

You turn, eyes still closed to where the table would have been.

_“We barely got out of there alive, and you want us to go back?”_

“…pretty much,” you whisper aloud, eyes still firmly shut.

_“Sounds rather fun, actually,” Monty says with a smile, fiddling with the button on his cuff. Morita lets out a burp._

You blindly turn to where Morita had been sitting.

_“I’m in.”_

_“Moi, je combattrai, jusqu’a ce que le dernier de ces bâtards soient morts, enchaînés ou bien pleurent comme un petit bébé!” Gabe turns to Dernier with a mischievous smile._

_“J’espere que ce sera tous les trois.”_

_“Moi aussi!” They laugh loudly, shake hands, and Gabe looks around at everyone’s confused, expectant expressions. He gestures between him and Dernier._

_“We’re in.”_

You shift your unseeing gaze to “Dugan”, and a tearful, fragile smile pulls at your mouth.

_“Hell, I’ll always fight. But you got to do one thing for me.”_

“What’s that?” You’re words are as shaky as your smile.

_He downs the last of his pint before answering._

_“Open a tab.” They laugh, and you gather up the glasses as Morita chuckles, “well, that was easy.”_

You turn and start to head towards the bar, effortlessly stepping over and around the debris. You settle your hands on the bar, watery smile still on your face. After that, you’d gone to talk to…to talk…

You can see _him_ sitting there, back to you, and suddenly you need to see his face, need to see him not screaming, not scared, not _dying,_ and this – this is all so real it’s like you were living it all again, the colors are vibrant around you, the people bustle around, singing and drinking and laughing. You _can_ see him again, you _have to_ , and suddenly you’re pushing away from the bar, turning and staggering for the door to the next room, and you slam against the two-by-four beam that is all that’s left of what _used_ to be the wall –

And just like that you can see him. Can see him turning to face you, _grinning widely, body relaxed from all the alcohol he’s been drinking._

_“See? I told you,” he crows, turning on his stool to face forward._

You stumble towards the counter the two of you’d sat at, heart breaking because he’s _here_. You can _see_ him. All the details you memorized in that horrible split second, they’re all there but they’re _good_ , not falling and dying, and the Commandos are distantly singing in the other room, and you need to blink to make sure he’s really here–

 _“They’re_ all _idiots.”_

The vision vanishes. The color is sucked away, the smells fade, the warmth freezes, the people turn invisible. Bucky…Bucky’s gone. His stool is the only one left at the bar, and it’s empty, charred and broken. Your breathing grows ragged, and you look around wildly as you hear the echo of a memory of the song the others had been singing, the heartbreaking words sung with cruel, drunken joviality.

 _“Fare thee well, for I must leave thee.”_ You grind your dirty palms into your tear-filled eyes, gritting your teeth and trying to drive the memory away. _“Do not let this parting grieve thee, and remember that the best of friends must part, must part.”_

“Stop,” you whisper, voice cracking, and Bucky’s drunken smile flashes in your mind followed by his screams. “Stop, stop, _stop_ …”

_“Adieu, adieu, kind friends, adieu. Oh, I can no longer stay with you–”_

_“Bucky! Grab my hand! NO!” Then that scream, that howling terrible scream –_

“STOP!” You grab the table and throw it across the room and into the wall, shattering a smoke-stained mirror.

And in the silence that follows, you start to sob and back into the abandoned bar, almost knocking over his stool. Frantically, you steady it and then slowly sink to the ground. You bow your head against your knees and finally let it all out. All the pain and hurt and heartbreak, you just let it all out in a painful torrent of sobs and tears until for the first time since the serum you can’t breathe properly, and you’re gasping, choking on air.

Bucky’s gone. He’s gone, he’s _dead_ , and it’s all _your_ fault. You didn’t grab him. You let him go, you _dropped_ him –

The scream echoes in your mind again, and you grind your teeth, slamming your head back against the wood paneling behind your head.

You _killed_ Bucky. You _killed_ your best friend.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” you whisper, voice strained and small. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry._ ”

And as you sit there, sobbing and crying, you think back to everything that he ever did for you, all the memories, the drunken nights, the dancing, the Cyclone at Coney Island, sharing that crappy one room apartment, getting tangled up in each other while you were sleeping, that blessed night before the fucking train with you lying across him the way you used to, and you grip handfuls of your hair in your fists.

You killed him. You’ll have to tell Rebecca. And his mother and father. You’ll have to go home and tell them that you – that _you, Steven Grant Rogers,_ the boy who was nigh inseparable from their brother and son, who they loved as a third child – _you_ killed Bucky.

You killed the boy with the pirate smile who looked at you like you were the goddamn sun, and right now you could die, too.

And suddenly, getting drunk seems like a _really_ good idea.

You push yourself to your feet and stumble behind the bar, checking the cabinets and finding a bottle of something that somehow managed to survive the inferno. You grab a soot-smudged glass and stagger back into the main floor. And with shaky breaths, you grab the table you’d thrown and carry it back with one hand to the center of the room where you let it drop down heavily. You set the bottle and glass down on it and grab an overturned, scorched chair from the corner of the room. It seems solid enough, and you let it drag behind you as you walk back over to the table, right the seat, and sag into it.

And then, you start drinking. You try not to think about anything except getting drunk, but the train keeps playing over and over and over again, peppered with sadistic memories of Brooklyn and the Commandos missions. Your head is pounding but it’s not from the alcohol, and you bitterly realize, after about an hour, that you’re not drunk. In fact you’re not even slightly tipsy. And you’re not sure if you want to cry or laugh that the serum it seems has taken everything from you.

_“Oh, I’ll hang my heart on a weeping willow tree! Fare thee well, fare thee well, fare thee well!”_

You close your red and swollen eyes and let out a small, broken sigh as the last line of the chorus drifts through your mind. How cruel could this universe get? How sadistic and just fucking messed up could God decide to be with you?

You’re about to just give up when you hear someone walking towards you through the rubble. In retrospect, you should have known that step. Should have known that perfume. But you’re too upset to work it out, and you look over your shoulder to see Peggy Carter slowly walk into the room, expression gentle and sorry. You give a shaky sigh, drag the back of your hand across your nose, and reach for the bottle again.

“Dr. Erskine said that the serum wouldn’t just affect my muscles, it would affect my cells.” Your voice is thick and hoarse, and you set the bottle down as she walks over to stand beside you. “Create a protective system of regeneration and healing. Which means, um. I can’t get drunk.” You glance at her. “Did you know that?”

She slowly pulls out Bucky’s stool and carries it over to the table with you.

“Your metabolism burns four times faster than the average person.” She slowly sits down and looks at you sadly. “He thought it could be one of the side effects.” You want to cry again, and you take in a shaky breath, tears filling your eyes. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Did you read the _report?”_ A pause.

“Yes.” You scoff shakily.

“Then you _know_ that’s not true.”

“You did everything you could.” You can’t answer that. Can’t say anything. Because you can still feel Bucky’s fingers slipping through yours, and you think _I could have jumped after him._ “Did you believe in your friend?” You look at her almost defensively. “Did you respect him?” _Yes. Yes, more than anything else in the world._ You look down, fighting to keep your breathing even. “Then _stop blaming yourself._ Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He _damn_ well must have thought you were _worth_ it.”

 _But I wasn’t though._ He _was. He was always the one who was worth it. Never me._

“I’m going after Schmidt.” You keep your gaze fixed stolidly on the tabletop, trying not to think about the HYDRA goon you killed with your shield. “I’m not gonna stop until all of HYDRA is dead or captured.”

“You won’t be alone.” You look to Peggy and offer her a shaky smile that almost immediately dissolves into tears. “Oh, Steve…”

You drop your head into your hands, elbows digging into the table. You feel like your heart is slowly being ripped to pieces with a razor. Peggy slowly gets up and stands next to you, resting one arm around your shoulders while the other gently cups your head, guiding you to wrap your arms around her waist and rest your head against her stomach.

“He’s gone. Peg, he’s _gone_.” She tightens her hold on you, just lets you sob. “Bucky – Bucky’s _dead_. I can’t go through this again, I _can’t_ …” She gently runs her fingers through your hair, gently hushing you and slowly pulls back so she can kneel before you.

“Tell me about him.” She gives you that same gentle smile, and as she sits back on Buck’s stool, you do. You tell her about everything, starting with the story of you and your mother and ending with screams echoing off snowy mountainsides.

“I felt like I was screaming with him. Like I was falling, too.” You take in a shuddering breath.

“Steve,” she whispers in a voice that verges dangerously on pity, and she gently wipes away your tears. “I should’ve realized.”

“Realized what?” Your voice is nothing more than a croak.

“You loved him.” You immediately shake your head, tensing.

“No. No, _you_ –”

“ _Steve_.” She just looks at you knowingly. “You can love more than one person at a single time. And you can love some people more deeply than others. That doesn’t mean you love the other any less.” She stands up again and wraps her arms around your shoulders. You let your head rest against her like a child, and your hands hold limply onto the folds of her skirt. “It’s alright, Steve. It’ll all be alright.” Slowly, she helps you up, and wraps an arm around your waist while pulling your arm over her shoulder. “Let’s get you back to base.”

She walks you back to your room and helps you take off your jacket given how physically and mentally drained you are. You know in the morning you’ll have to face the Commandos. You’ll have to send the Barnes family a condolence letter. You’ll have to wake up and face your first day in a world without Bucky Barnes in it. But right now, you want to sleep. Except sleep won’t come, and you just sit there numbly on your bed as Agent Carter slowly heads for the door. And when you realize what's wrong, you decide you'll have to yell at Bucky in whatever afterlife there is for making you dependent on him to fall asleep.

“Peggy.” She stops.

“Yes?”

“Could…could you stay?” You clear your throat and try to elaborate. “Here. With me. J-just tonight.” Normally you’d blush at how incoherent you were being, but right now you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Mercifully, she couldn’t either.

“If you like.” She walks back over to the bed, sits beside you, and takes off her heels. “Alright, to bed with you. You’ve had a long day.”

You give a brittle smile, and the two of you lie back in bed, Peggy reaching over you to turn out the light. In the dark she slowly moves you so your arm drapes over her stomach, and her own arm crosses over your back. Gingerly, you rest your head on her shoulder, and she sighs. 

“Night, Steve.” You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Night, Peggy.”

You know in the morning you’re both going to regret sleeping in your clothes, but you close your eyes anyways.

All you dream about is the train.

The next day, Peggy walks you to the briefing with Colonel Phillips, Howard Stark, and the remainder of the Howling Commandos. You don’t say anything as Phillips explains Schmidt’s plan to bomb essentially the entire world, starting with the United States – specifically the Eastern Seaboard. Your crew does most of the talking, asks most of the questions. Until it comes time for one of your patented Reckless Steve Rogers Ideas, because now there’s no voice of reason to shout you down. Well, there’s Peggy. But after your conversation last night, you doubt she’s going to deny you this.

Your plan?

You’re gonna march right up to Johann Schmidt’s front door. And you’re gonna hand his ass to him.

Before you leave, you make a quick pencil sketch of Bucky from a night back in Brooklyn – bright-eyed and innocent, laughing at something off page. You fold it up and tuck it inside your uniform over your heart and then double check to make sure your compass with Peggy’s picture in it is safe and sound in your utility belt.

It is.

You single-handedly get all the way to the front gate, using your motorcycle to crash a hole in the heavy door. And then, the rest of your plan falls into place. You’re overwhelmed. Captured. And marched right up to Schmidt’s office – the one with the massive window overlooking the snowy mountains.

“Arrogance may not be a _uniquely American_ trait, but I must say you do it better than anyone else.” The red skinned man is more than a little annoyed with you. You exchange a little bit of banter, and then Schmidt says something that you know how to respond to. “But he gave you everything. So, what made you so special?”

You chuckle. It’s a cold, mirthless sound, and when you answer, your mind is filled with the image of a five foot four punk and his jerk of a best friend, bloody and roughed up. And you know Bucky's probably cheering in heaven.

“Nothin’. I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.” The quick beating he gives you is worth it, and you glare up at him from your knees as you snarl, “I can do this all day.”

And that’s when Monty, Gabe, and Dum Dum come busting through the window, using the same technique that you’d used on that ill-fated train. There’s no mercy, no quarter, because you weren’t the only one who lost somebody.

“Rogers! You might need this!” You catch the shield as Monty throws it to you.

“Thanks!”

And with that you’re running. Dernier and Morita lead in the first wave of the assault team while Peggy and Phillips lead in the second wave. No matter the casualties, this stops now. You’re right on Schmidt’s tail when you’re cornered by one of those bastards with the flame throwers, but that doesn’t last very long before Agent Carter shows up and saves your ass, gunning the soldier down from behind with a machine gun.

“You’re late.” She smirks at you, and you’re about to lean down to kiss her when she says,

“Weren’t you about to…”

“ _Right_.” And then you’re chasing Schmidt again.

You’re almost to him when his plane _Valkyrie_ starts to take off, and you slow from a sprint to a defeated walk. And just when you started to think about how you’d just failed the entire world, Phillips pulls up in Schmidt’s own car, Peggy in the back seat. You quickly jump in, and he starts to bring you towards the landing gear 

“Keep her steady!” You’re about to move towards the front of the car when Peggy stops you.

“Wait!” She grabs onto one of the holster straps across your chest and quickly pulls you down into a kiss. And as you look down at her, you hear her words from last night. _You can love more than one person at a single time. And you can love some people more deeply than others. That doesn’t mean you love the other any less._ She smirks at you. “Go get him.”

“I’m not kissing you!” Phillips shouts as you look to him, and you start moving, ducking under the propeller and jumping onto the landing gear just as the plane takes off and Phillips slams on the breaks. You look over your shoulder and see Peggy standing in the back of the car, and even from this distance you can see the confidence and love in her expression.

You’re going to do this. For her. For Peggy and for Bucky.

And you do. After several harrowing fights with about six different HYDRA infantry, the turret guns of the Valkyrie, and then a final big showdown with Schmidt that ultimately ended in him disintegrating because he held the tesseract in his bare hands, you’re alone. The Tesseract falls to the floor of the vessel and slowly burns a hole through the floor and drops to the ocean below, and you quickly run past the red hot, molten grate to the pilot’s seat. The controls show that all the bombs are live, rigged on a sort of semi-autopilot you can’t disengage. Right now, you’re in the middle of nowhere in the Arctic, and you slowly realize that this? This is as good as it’s gonna get.

You swallow hard and reach for the comm system.

“Come in. This is Captain Rogers, do you read me?”

“Captain Rogers, what is you loca–”

“Steve, is that you? Are you alright?” You smile as you hear Peggy’s voice cut off Morita’s.

“Peggy, Schmidt’s dead!”

“What about the plane?” You open and close your mouth a few times and settle on a grimace.

“ _That’s_ a little bit tougher to explain.”

“Give me your coordinates. I’ll find you a safe landing site.” You quickly check a few more flashing warnings on the console, and your gut sinks.

“There’s not gonna be a safe landing. But I can try and force it down.”

“I-I’ll get Howard on the line. He’ll know what to do.”

“There’s not enough time. This thing’s moving too fast and it’s heading for New York.” You know what you have to do. You think you’ve always known. You take in a deep breath and try not to think about how it’s one of your last. “I got to put her in the water.”

“Please, don’t do this. We have time, we can work it out.” Her voice is starting to break, and you hurry to explain. You need to make her understand this.

“Right now I’m in the middle of nowhere. If I wait any longer, a lot of people are gonna die.” You pause, and the weight of your situation finally starts to sink in. What this means, what’s going to happen. And you know you’re going to do to her what Bucky did you to you. “Peggy…this is _my_ choice.”

Even across the distance between you two, you can hear her heart break in the silence. You quickly reach into one of the pouches on your belt and pull out your compass. You quickly open it and set it on the dash so that you can look at the newspaper picture of her that you glued inside the cover. And then, you drive the plane downwards. You look between the ice and snow racing up to you and the picture – the gentle smile that she’d given you so many times before. And suddenly, you feel scared.

“Peggy?”

“I’m here.” Her voice sounds wobbly.

“I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance.” The ice continues to come closer.

“Alright.” She’s definitely crying now, but when she continues, you’re so thankful that she sounds like her normal self. “A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club.”

“You got it.”

“Eight o’clock on the dot, don’t you _dare_ be late. Understood?”

“You know, I still don’t know how to dance.” Your mind flashes back to the lessons Bucky tried to give you in your apartment, your helpless peals of laughter as you inevitably tripped and fell or made him fall over. And suddenly you’re not just scared. You're _petrified_. You’re scared out of your mind, and you want to turn tail and run but you can’t. You’re trapped; you have nowhere to go.

You try to think of dancing.

“I’ll show you how.” Peggy’s voice is starting to break again. “Just _be there_.”

“We’ll have the band play something slow.” Your voice cracks, and you reach up to touch the paper folded over your heart. You can’t see the water anymore. Your entire view out of the cockpit is ice and snow as far as the eye can see, and the train is rattling around your ears, Bucky is screaming, and you force yourself to think of dancing. Dancing with him. Dancing with _her_. Laughter and love and such a deep feeling of _belonging._ “I’d hate to step on your–”

There’s a loud noise, a painful crack, and for a split moment you feel yourself slam into the console.

And then your world goes white.


	4. Repeat

The first thing you’re aware of is radio chatter. At first it’s just noise, but then, as you slowly wake up, it becomes clearer.

“Curve ball, high and outside for ball one. So, the Dodgers are tied, 4 to 4, and the crowd well knows that with one swing of his bat, this fellow’s capable of making it a brand-new game again.” You slowly frown and blink a few times. A ceiling fan is turning over your head and you can hear the honking of cars out your open windows. There’s a gentle cross breeze going and the air is warm, but not uncomfortable.

_What the hell is going on?_

“Just an absolutely gorgeous day here at Ebbets Field. The Phillies have managed to tie it up at 4 to 4. But the Dodgers have three men on.” You slowly start to sit up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed with the utmost caution. Your adrenaline is surging, and your brow furrows as you struggle to put everything in order. You were on the plane in the Arctic, you were about to die, you crashed into the ice, you _felt_ yourself crash–

This game. This game, it sounds so familiar, what is going _on?_

“Pearson beaned Reiser in Philadelphia last month. Wouldn’t the youngster like a hit here to return the favor? Pete leans in…”

 _Here’s the pitch_ , you recite in your head along with the anchor, and you realize that’s why this sounds so familiar.

“Swung on. A line to the right. And it gets past Rizzo! Three runs will score. Reiser heads to third. Durocher’s going to wave him in!” You _know_ this game. _You were there._ “Here comes the relay, but they won’t get him!”

The door opens, and you shift your distrusting glare onto the woman coming in.

“Good morning.” She closes the door, and you tense. “Or should I say, afternoon?”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in a recovery room in New York City.” You quickly look her up and down, and immediately you prepare to run. Everything is wrong. Her tie, her hair, her tights, even her _bra,_ all of it – it’s like a bad replica of 40’s fashion, and then the _game_.

“The Dodgers take the lead, 8 to 4. Whoa, Dodgers! Everyone is on their feet. What a game we have here today, folks. What a game, indeed.”

 _It’s May, 1941, and you and Bucky are screaming your heads off in the bleachers, cheering and jumping with everybody else. He’s slapping you on the back so hard you’re pretty sure you’re going to have bruises but who_ cares _the Dodgers just won the fucking game –_

“Where am I really?” She laughs, and you can see the nervousness she’s hiding.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“The game. It’s from May, 1941. I know, ‘cause I was there.” Immediately, you see her go stiff, and you slowly get up from the bed, walking towards her. Your voice is low and dangerous because you’re terrified. You’re confused. And most of all you’re threatened. “Now I’m gonna ask you again. _Where am I?”_

“Captain Rogers–”

“Who are you?!”

That’s when the door opens to reveal two men in unfamiliar military outfits, and your survival training kicks in. You throw both men into the wall and are shocked when the whole wall gives in like it’s paper thin, but you take it and you run. And that’s when you see that the room you were in? It isn't a room at all. It looks like an experiment, a cube with tapestries of Brooklyn alleys and skylines at their respective windows, fans to generate the wind, and speakers to create the city noise.

You’re in a warehouse. Somebody’s prisoner. And honestly, this looks like something HYDRA would do. It all makes sense. They found the plane, they captured you, they were planning to do some kind of brainwashing–

“Captain Rogers, _wait!”_ the woman calls after you, and you run. You sprint into the hallway, and everywhere you look you see fancy glass and unfamiliar architecture. Everyone is wearing black suits and all the alarm bells are going off in your head, and if you thought you were scared going into the Arctic?

You’re fucking petrified now.

“I repeat: all agents, code 13!” the woman yells over the PA, and you’re running again. You knock men out of the way as they charge at you, and soon you find your way to the door. It’s not guarded at all. In fact it looks like an office building entrance, and you sprint outside.

_What the fuck?_

You have no idea where you are. You’ve never seen this before. Everything looks different, more advanced. The cars aren’t the same, the people aren’t dressed right, nothing sounds right, nothing smells right, _nothing is right_. You start moving again, sprinting into the middle of the street and running. For some reason everything looks familiar, and that’s when you realize holy _shit_ , you’re in New York City.

Somehow you’re in New York City because you’ve just sprinted into the middle of what you think is supposed to be Times Square. You’re breathing heavily, terrified, confused, and nothing makes sense, nothing’s right, you were supposed to be dead, you were supposed to see Peggy, what is this, what the fuck is going _on?!_

About a dozen black cars pull up around you in a circle, boxing you in, and you’re about ready to start flipping vehicles if it means you can get out of this when–

“At ease soldier!” a voice shouts, and you stop your wild turning to look at the man walking towards you. He’s wearing a black trench coat and an eye patch. Despite his initial menacing appearance, he sounds genuinely apologetic when he continues. “Look, I’m sorry about that little show back there, but…we thought it best to break it to you slowly.”

“Break _what?”_ you demand, shaking slightly. The man hesitates, like he’s debating whether or not here and now is the way to tell you, and you want to throttle him.

“You’ve been asleep, Cap. For almost seventy years.”

_What?_

Slowly, you look around at everything around you, and, bit by bit, it all starts to make sense. The ice…you must have been frozen in the ice. _Fucking super soldier serum_. It’s the gift that keeps on fucking giving when all you want to do is lie down and die already. You suddenly feel helpless, more helpless than you did in the Arctic, and you go to make a corresponding gesture with your hands. But you can’t. You just feel so defeated. So broken down, so _tired_.

 _Seventy years_.

What the hell is there left for you _now?_

Your breathing is still heavy and stressed, and you start to look around at the crowd gawking at you. They’re all whispering and pointing, holding up strange devices to you.

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I just…” You sound so absent. So distracted. _Seventy years_ …what were you gonna – Oh god. The Commandos…Howard…Phillips… _Peggy_.

You say the only thing you can. The only thing that makes sense to you, the only thing that your mind can handle at the moment.

“I had a date.”

You can’t think about dancing for a long time.


	5. Welcome to the Future

It’s 2012.

 _Two_ _thousand_ and twelve.

1945 was only yesterday, and you feel another sickening jolt in your gut, another flood of panic filling your lungs and throat as you remember _no_. No, it was _sixty-seven years ago._ Almost _seven decades_ ago. The apartments you lived in as a kid are gone. The streets are renamed, the buildings are different. And the people…

The people you knew are all dead. They’re…they’re _dead_. Your nose burns as tears fill your eyes, and you quickly get out of bed, snatching up your duffle bag and heading for Goldie’s Gym on the corner even though it’s four in the goddamn morning. At least that’s still there. But at the same time, you wish it wasn’t because it feels like it’s mocking you. Taunting you with memories of what used to be _sixty-seven years ago._

You let yourself in with the key the owner gave you and drop your bag on the bench. You tape up your hands in silence. Set up the first bag. And you start punching. You start hitting as hard as you can, over and over and over again, until there’s sweat pouring down your face, drenching your shirt, and your super soldier muscles are protesting at the brutal use. All your anger, your pain, your anguish, your _hurt_ , you’re pouring it all out now with each vicious strike.

And just when you fall into a sort of trance, the images start.

It’s an explosion first. You’re running with your Commandos through the snow, and a shell blows up next to you, the shards ripping through the thinner parts of your uniform and piercing your skin. Your ears ring as your lungs burn with the coldness of the air.

Then, it’s the train. The goddamn train, and the metal is rattling in your ears, the icy wind whistling past your body, chilling you to the bone as you board the car. Bucky’s blown out the side of the train, and his scream echoes in your ears as he falls, tears you to shreds.

You’re storming the HYDRA keep, getting ready to kill Red Skull, vengeance the only thing on your mind, and you do it, you make it, none of your other friends die, you get to give Peggy one last kiss – one _first_ kiss – and then you’re behind the controls of the Valkyrie, live bombs all around you rigged to explode and no way to stop them other than –

_“There’s not enough time! I’ve got to put her in the water.”_

The Tesseract, the Red Skull, the warehouse in Krausberg exploding, the heat singeing your clothes and body, speeding towards the ice, fear in your heart, an echo of Bucky’s laugh, a ghost of his grin, Peggy’s picture in your compass smiling up at you –

_“You won’t be alone.”_

But you are alone. You are alone, you’re seventy years in the future, you _are alone –_ the Commandos, Howard, _Peggy_ , _Bucky_ **,** they’re all _gone_ –

_“My god…this man’s still alive!  
_

BAM.

You stop, breathing heavily, and look at the split open punching bag lying against the wall across the room, at the sand strewn across the floor, the broken chain hanging before you. You turn around to the other six bags you have lined up on the ground behind you. You pick one, string it up with a single hand, and start all over again.

Or at least you plan to. But Director Fury has other ideas and the next thing you know he’s telling you the goddamn Tesseract _was_ back in SHIELD custody but now it’s been stolen by another megalomaniac – this one from another _planet_. He wants you on a team of six super-powered and/or highly skilled individuals called The Avengers to get it back and save the world, and you want to scream.

You _did_ all of this already. You _died_ to stop this shit. You _died_ to prevent people from using the Tesseract for their own agendas. _Bucky_ died to prevent it. You’ve _done_ all of this already, you’ve _given_ everything you have, you’ve _done your part_. You’ve _lost more than anyone could be asked to lose_.

And now, because _some_ assholes couldn’t learn from history, because _some_ assholes gave in to the temptation of power and greed, you have to do it all over again.

It’s 2012.

You’re fighting gods and aliens instead of super soldiers, serving onboard flying helicarriers instead of undercover bases, using bigger and badder weapons than the 40s, and you think about what Bucky would have to say about all of this.

Then, you discover that SHIELD – Peggy and Howard’s creation from the SSR – has been using the Tesseract not as a form of unlimited energy but to fuel weapons. Just. Like. HYDRA.

 _I DIED TO STOP THIS!_ you want to scream. _GOOD PEOPLE DIED TO STOP THIS! BUCKY DIED TO STOP THIS! AND WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU GO AND DO? DID YOU LEARN NOTHING? DO YOU EVEN CARE ABOUT WHAT WE WENT THROUGH? WHAT WE SACRIFICED?!_

You don’t though. Instead, you think about the World Exposition of Tomorrow as you hear the news that Phil Coulson – one of the few people you actually liked in this century – was killed in Loki’s attack on the helicarrier. You think about the future you all thought you were going to get seventy years ago as you turn the agent’s bloodstained Captain America trading cards over and over in your fingers.

_Vintage._

_I’m here, Buck,_ you think. _The future – I’m here. And it’s_ fucking hell.

“He was out of his league,” Howard’s son scoffs. _Bucky picks up your fallen shield, swinging it in front of himself as the goon clearly sent to kill you fires the plasma canon at him._ “He should have _waited_.” _You scramble to your feet. “Bucky! Hang on! Grab my hand!”_ “He should have…”

_“NO!”_

“Sometimes there isn’t a way out, Tony,” you say with the weight of a thousand lifetimes in your voice.

“Right. I’ve heard that before.” _So like Howard,_ you think to yourself.

“Is this the first time you’ve lost a soldier?”

“We are _not_ soldiers!”

 _No,_ you think to yourself. _We’re not._ I’m _not. Not anymore._

But that’s how you have to think of yourself. Of these “Avengers.” You won’t make the same mistake twice.

As you think about the lost agent, you feel a pang in your chest. But nothing more. The memory of Bucky falling from the train, _literally_ slipping through your fingers, has numbed you to the loss of anyone else. Nothing could be worse than that moment.

You _won’t_ make that same mistake again. These people are _soldiers._ They can’t be your friends. All your friends do is die.

So you do what you do best. You rally the troops. Instantly pick out each person’s strengths, their weaknesses, and assign them roles accordingly. You enlist the help of the local police and military to protect civilians. You find you like Agent Natasha Romanoff. She reminds you of Peggy. And a little bit of Bucky, too, now that you think about it. And now that you think about it some more, Peggy and Bucky really had quite a few similarities. Maybe that’s why you…no. No, never mind.

_It’s 2012._

And here you are: six of you fighting back to back with a Director and female agent guiding your moves from a remote location. Your seventh member is dead. A megalomaniac hungry for power with delusions of grandeur and armed with the Tesseract rains an army down on you. Impossible odds. Impossible solutions.

Sound familiar?

You save the day. How could you not? You and your new Howling Commandos drive the enemy back with a suicide run, armed with a live nuclear bomb incapable of being disabled that was heading for the city.

_Sound familiar?_

Except this time your teammate comes back alive, snatched from the air by Banner’s Hulk form, and you smile for the first time in seven decades as Howard’s son coughs his way back to life and cracks a joke with his first breath in true Stark form.

“We won,” you say, looking up at the destruction, your team alive around you, and your heart aches. Because, despite the utter ruin, why couldn’t it have worked out like this seventy years ago?

The world knows you’re back now. Captain America has had his opening debut in the 21st century. And now that the world knows you’re back…you have to go see _her_. You weren’t quite being honest with yourself when you said that you were the only one left. You walk up to the quaint nursing home tucked away in a scenic area of New York City, a bouquet of flowers in your hands, feeling as nervous as a schoolboy asking his girl to a dance for the first time.

And as a nurse walks you into a light and airy room filled with cards and drawings and flowers, the silver-haired woman sitting at the bay window looks over at you, still beautiful at the age of 91. Her wrinkled eyes fill with tears, and she slowly stands up, leaning heavily on a cane to keep herself balanced.

 _“You won’t be alone_.”

She envelops you in a powerful hug, and you slowly start to cry as she gently shushes you and kisses your temple.

She kept her promise. Peggy Carter kept her promise.

Two years go by. You’ve relocated to D.C. – you’re closer to work this way since S.H.I.E.L.D.’s main base of operations is now there in a massive building called the Triskelion. But that’s not the main reason you left New York.

The main reason is that you couldn’t stand it there. At first you thought everything was different, that the city you knew was gone. But then, when you looked closer, you realized it was all still there. _Everything_ is still there, it’s just lurking beneath the surface like ghosts peering out of windows, glimpses into a world that no longer exists but somehow just barely does.

Turns out moving to D.C. was almost just as bad. Because the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum was in D.C. Why your exhibit was in National Air and Space and _not_ American History, you’re not quite sure. But the exhibit is there none-the-less. You put off visiting it for a long time, but eventually you go. And your heart…oh your heart breaks to see all your friends again. To see Bucky and you smiling at each other, laughing. To hear Peggy’s voice the way it used to sound, to see her the way she used to be. All of them – to see them the way _you_ remember and know them.

The murals take your breath away – they look so life-like. The recreations and originals of some of the Commandos’ uniforms confusingly make you want to smile while your eyes water at the same time. You want to reach out and touch the fabrics, run your hands over the places where you know you clapped each of them on the back or grabbed them around the arm to yank them out of danger. To rest your palm over their hearts and imagine that you can feel the steady beats of the organs that have long since gone still through the clothing.

Especially the double-breasted blue coat on the mannequin to the left of your own. You know that one’s a recreation. Because Bucky had been wearing his when he died.

You stand in front of Bucky’s exhibit for a long time on that first trip. Read his panel over and over and over again. Stare at his cold, black and white face with unblinking eyes. Listen to the computerized voice deliver a very watered down version of his life, a shallow look into the vibrant person you knew and loved. If you had designed this display, it would have turned into a whole exhibit of its own because _that_ is what he deserves. You stand there for a _very_ long time. _Hours_. You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there until a volunteer comes over and cautiously touches your elbow.

“Sir? Are you okay?” she asks, and she can’t be more than nineteen years old, wide-eyed and nervous, and you figure out that she knows who you are. Her natural hair reminds you of a picture Gabe Jones showed you of his girl so long ago, and you open your mouth to answer.

You mean to say “yes, sorry” but nothing comes out, and you just look back at the glass tribute to James Buchanan Barnes. To the resolute, stoic expression on his face, just as, for the thirty-first time, the narrator comes to the line _Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country_.

No. You’re not okay.

You’re not quite sure how it happens, but the next thing you know you’re sitting in the coffee shop across the street, the volunteer sitting worriedly before you. She’s set a cup of black coffee between your hands, and you look up at her as she gives a wan smile.

“There you are. You looked like you needed to get out of there,” she explains softly. “I just wanted to stick around until you got back from wherever it is you went.” You still say nothing and then quickly clear your throat as you remember your manners.

“Thank you.” She gets up to leave, and you pick up the coffee and wince as you see that your hands are shaking slightly.

“Is there someone you want me to call?” Her voice is low, but kind.

“No, I…” You scoff. “There’s no one _to_ call,” you finish softly, still looking at your hands wrapped around the Styrofoam cup. With that, the girl slowly sits back down.

“You must really miss him,” she says, and you look up at her, suddenly exhausted. “You were standing there for three and a half hours.”

“Yeah.” You sigh and nod. “Yeah, I do.” You run your hand over your face and clear your throat. Without knowing exactly why, you continue. “I was there when he died. I was… _why_ he died.” You shake your head. “He was my best friend in the world. And seeing him again, the pictures, the videos…seeing him laughing and smiling…”

“You should go home,” the girl presses gently, and you laugh once to yourself.

“I can’t,” you say and then pause. Your wry smile slowly fades. “I _was._ ” The small café suddenly feels about as tiny as a cell, and you get up, pulling out your wallet. “How much was the coffee?”

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that–”

“No, I insist. How much was it?” The girl flounders a little longer before clearing her throat and answering with a blush.

“Five bucks.” You don’t have a five, so you work on pulling out the change in singles.

“What’s your name?”

“Deja,” she answers, and you hand her the money with a smile.

“Thanks for the coffee, Deja. I’ll see you around.” And with that, you leave. You can see her watching you go in the reflections of the doors and windows, still dazedly holding her five dollars in her hand.

You don’t go back to the museum for several months – _can’t_ go back. But when you finally do, Deja’s not working there anymore.

You’ve taken to running to try and alleviate your nightmares and endlessly turning thoughts. Thirteen miles in thirty minutes isn’t unheard of for you, and you curse your super soldier strength and metabolism for not allowing you to drive yourself into the ground, not letting you work so hard your body just gives out and you fall to the floor unable to move. You’re out running on one of your rougher mornings when you find that there’s someone else on your route. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and he’s wearing a VA tracksuit.

And, because you’re a courteous person, you say “on your left” as you pass him.

You do it the second time, too, to which he responds with the slightest note of playful annoyance in his voice,

“Uh-huh. On my left. Got it.”

The third time you do it, you’re just being an ass because there’s something about this man that makes you feel young again. You ignore the small voice in your head that tells you you’re only twenty-nine.

“Don’t you say it,” the man warns, voice rising in frustration. “ _Don’t_ you say it!”

“On your left.”

 _“COME ON!”_ he yells after you, and you fight to keep a straight face as you listen to him try and catch up to you.

So it is you meet Sam Wilson, two-tour member of the 58th Pararescue who now works at the VA as a counselor. For the first time since you woke up, you have someone to talk to. Someone who gets your sense of humor and who shares your experiences. Someone who treats you like a normal human being instead of fragile glass or some kind of sacred object. With a jolt, you realize he reminds you of Bucky. He has that same carefree, easy manner around him, and oh god, that pirate smile, that laugh. The sarcastic humor, the absolutely fearless way he jokes around with you. He’s different enough, he’s definitely his own person. But the echo of Bucky is still there. And…it makes you _happy._

You think you should feel guilty. But you don’t. In fact, as you part ways with him, you actually feel a little steadier.

Your mission with Romanoff is largely run of the mill until she steals intelligence and you realize she has a separate mission from you. Not for the first time, you feel a flash of anger towards Fury and the way he runs things. You miss the old days in that regard. You miss when things were simpler, when you knew who the bad guy was because evil was much more black and white. You miss when you had people around you that you could trust.

People like the Commandos.

Like Bucky.

_“Everyone in my barbershop quartet is dead, so…”_

After the mission you go to give Fury a piece of your mind, but instead you end up getting introduced to the man’s latest grand idea to protect the world – because the Tesseract worked out _so well_. This time, it’s three massive, heavily armed helicarriers that are all a part of a project called Insight. Fury spouts a bunch of fancy language about it being the manifestation of a “quantum surge in threat analysis” but you know better. You look at those guns, those executioner’s axes. You can see through the lies as he wraps up his pitch with “for once we’re way ahead of the curve,” and you call him out on it.

“By holding a gun to everyone on Earth and calling it protection.”

“You know, I read those SSR files. Greatest Generation? You guys did some nasty stuff.”

“Yeah. We compromised.” You’re not about to rise to the bait. “Sometimes in ways that made us not sleep so well. But we did it so that people could be free.” You point to the massive crafts around you both. “This isn’t freedom. This is _fear._ ”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. takes the world as it is, not as we’d like it to be,” Fury returns, stepping closer so that you’re toe to toe. “And it’s getting damn near past time for you to get with that program, Cap.”

 _I’ve seen where that program leads, Director_ , you think coolly, indignant anger bubbling below the surface of your skin.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you return, voice cold.

_Because I can hold mine for another sixty-seven years._

You feel a little nauseas after your meeting with Fury, a little lost and sickened about the decisions your institution is making. This isn’t the organization you joined. These aren’t the policies and the ideals you promised to uphold and defend. You need to refocus. Remember what exactly that all was, and there’s only one place you can do that.

You walk quickly through the Smithsonian and into your own exhibit, coming to a stop before the Howling Commandos mural and all your uniforms. This. This was who you were. This was what you stood for. Once. So long ago. Yesterday. You can’t keep it straight anymore.

_Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes. Their mission: taking down HYDRA, the Nazi rogue science division._

HYDRA, Nazis – they aren’t old enemies. They’re still around today under different names, in different countries – still the same evil. And if S.H.I.E.L.D. decides to start taking pages from their books, well…you’ll do what you always do then. You make your way to the next room and walk slowly through the ghost-like images of all of your friends gone by until you come to Bucky’s display.

_Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country._

Looking at Bucky grounds you. Seeing his face again, the curve of his smile, his eyes. Seeing the film of you and him laughing and smiling calms your tense nerves. It’s not a raw wound anymore, looking at him. Now, it’s more like revisiting an old memory. The pain of his absence is still heavy in your chest, but it’s not as suffocating, not as sharp. And looking at him now, all you can think is

 _Honor him_. _Honor him in everything you do. Honor them all, but honor him most of all._

You step into the small auditorium that comes next in the exhibit and sit down in the dark. You’re alone in there except for a mother and her daughter, and you watch in silence as Peggy Carter comes onto the screen. It’s an interview from 1950, and she’s talking about that one brutal winter where you liberated over 1,000 men from behind German lines.

You stand up for what’s right. No matter the odds and no matter the circumstances, you go out of your way to do good. But you still feel a little unsettled so you do the only other thing you can to try and regain your hold on Steve Rogers.

“Her episodes have been coming more and more frequently,” the nurse explains to you as you walk towards Peggy’s room. “Her lucid periods are getting shorter, so if she suddenly forgets who you are or what happened to you, Mr. Rogers, just play along with her. Don’t try to correct her, it’ll stress her out, and we don’t want to worry her too much.”

“Of course. Is she…” You can’t finish your question. Can’t bring yourself to say the word. But the nurse catches your drift.

“She’s not dying. But her health is declining, and as per her wishes and her family’s we’re treating her with only minimal intervention. She’s ninety-three. She’s lived a long, happy life, and it’s time to start letting her go.” Your heart twists at that.

“I understand,” you agree gently. _No. No, it’s not_ fair _. I just got back._ “I’ll be careful with her.”

She’s already in bed when you enter her room, and the covers drawn up around her frail body make her look even smaller than she already is. She smiles as bright as the sun as she sees you and takes the flowers from your hands, laughing as she runs her fingers along the smooth petals before passing them back to you and pointing to a vase. You slip the bouquet inside before returning to her side, pulling up a chair and sitting down. You catch up for a little bit, talk about the life she got to have.

“I have lived a life,” she sighs in agreement, looking at the picture of her with her two kids that you’d pointed out. Then, she looks at you and there’s a sadness in her eyes, a mourning of a past, a present, and a future lost. “My only regret is that you didn’t get to live yours.”

 _My only regret is that we didn’t get to live a life together._ You look down sadly, expression drawn. It’s your regret, too.

“What is it?” she asks gently, and you open and close your mouth a couple times, furrowing your brow as you continue to look at your lap.

“For as long as I can remember I just wanted to do what was right,” you begin, slowly letting your eyes flicker to meet hers. “I guess I’m not quite sure what that is anymore.” She doesn’t say anything. Just watches and listens with attentively concerned eyes. When you continue, your eyes slide away from hers again. “And I thought I could throw myself back in. Follow orders. _Serve_.” You look back at her and give a small, defeated smile and admit the truth that’s been weighing you down lately. “It’s just not the same.”

And to your surprise, Peggy laughs. She smiles.

“You’re always so dramatic!” You raise your eyebrows and look away, smiling with her. “Look. You saved the _world_.” You slowly look back to her, smile fading. “We rather…mucked it up.”

“You didn’t,” you immediately correct. You need her to know this. “Knowing that you helped _found_ S.H.I.E.L.D. is half the reason I stay.” Her gaze flickers down slightly, and she reaches for your hand, patting the comforter.

“Hey.” You let her take your hand in her fragile, hollow-boned one, and you feel her warm, newspaper thin skin smooth over yours. Her grip is strong despite her appearance, and she holds you close to her, pressing your hands tight against her thin stomach. What she says makes your heart swell and ache at the same time. Her voice is gentle and wise. “The world has changed, and none of us can go back. All we can do is our best.” A warble enters her voice, a cough rising up in her throat, and you sit up a little straighter in worry. “And sometimes the best that we can do…is to st-start over–”

She breaks off in a hard coughing fit, and you get up, grabbing the pitcher the nurse had left on Peg’s side table and pouring a glass of water for her.

 _But I don’t want to start over. I_ want _to go back._

“Peggy,” you say gently, sitting down and offering her the glass with wide, worried eyes. She looks back at you and blinks a few times. Her expression morphs into something tearful.

“Steve?” she asks breathlessly, on the verge of crying, and your expression slowly crumples.

“Yeah?”

“You – you’re alive!” she sobs, reaching for you, and you sigh, heart breaking. You force yourself to smile for her, but it’s a shaky, weak expression. “You came back!”

“Yeah, Peggy,” you smile, nodding and trying to hold yourself together. Her hands reach for yours, wrapping around your wrists since the glass is still in your hands. She’s openly sobbing, and you remember what the nurse told you.

“It’s been _so long_ ,” she sobs, voice cracking, and you swallow painfully. “ _So long._ ”

You nod quickly and smile in an almost begging way.

“Well, I couldn’t leave my best girl,” you tell her gently, trying to soothe her. “Not when she owes me a dance.”

She’s still crying though, and your smile slowly fades away to heartbreak. You set the glass on the side table and take her hands in yours, but she still isn’t calming down. So you close the door and gently climb into bed with her, putting an arm around her shoulders and letting her curl into you as you rub her back and whisper quietly to her. She’s still in her episode when she falls asleep so you leave a little note for her telling her that you’ll be back.

Your heart is heavy in a different way as you drive back to D.C., and you decide that you need something to lift your spirits a little bit. So you stop by the VA to see Sam Wilson.

He’s in the middle of a session, and you take his words to heart.

“Some stuff you leave there. Other stuff you bring back. It’s our job to figure out how to carry it.”

You approach him afterwards about what you heard, and he nods as he cleans up the brochures he’d laid out.

“Yeah, brother, we all got the same problems. Guilt. Regret.” You know that look. Know that voice.

“You lose someone?” you ask, and he nods.

“My wingman – Riley. Flying a night mission. Standard PJ rescue op. Nothing we hadn’t done a thousand times before.” Your mind flashes back to the train, to how relaxed you all were, how confident everyone was that this was going to be easy, in and out. How straightforward it actually had been once you started. Until… “Until an RPG knocked Riley’s dumb ass out of the sky.” Bucky is blasted out the side of the train, clinging to the railing, struggling to grab onto your hand. Sam shakes his head shrugs defensively. “Nothing I could do.” “ _Grab my hand! NO!”_ “It’s like I was up there just to watch.”

You look down and back up at him, expression somber.

“I’m sorry.”

“After that, I had a really hard time finding a reason for being over there, you know?” You know. Oh god, you know so well. But Sam…Sam looks so happy. So adjusted. _How?_

“But you’re happy now?” you ask, needing to know how he does it but masking your desperation well. “Back in the world?”

“The number of people giving me orders is down to about zero? So, hell yeah.” He pauses for a moment. “Are you thinking about getting out?”

“No,” you say immediately, and then correct yourself. “I _don’t_ know. To be honest, I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I did…”

“Ultimate fighting?” is Sam’s immediate response, and you laugh because it’s such a _Bucky_ response. “Just a _great_ idea off the top of my head. Seriously, you could do _whatever_ you want to do.” He gives a small smile and gestures at you slightly, like he’s thoroughly enjoying talking a 29-year old Avenger through a midlife crises. “What makes you happy?”

You stop. Your expression goes flat. Because what _does_ make you happy? The people are all gone, the places are all gone, the music is different, the actors are different, the _culture_ is different. All you can draw are things you knew, so that’s become tainted. All you have, now that you think about it, is your work. And even that…

“I don’t know,” you answer, and Sam nods slowly.

“Well then, maybe that’s where you should start.” He picks up his jacket and gestures to the door. “Come on. If you like, we can go back to my place and talk about this some more. Or not!” he adds, seeing your hesitation. “I _could_ just give you some more recommendations, introduce you to some music or movies or TV shows I think you might like. Cross some foods and media off your list. Catch you up to date on the latest celebrity gossip. What do you say, man?”

You give a smile. A small laugh.

And you say you’d love to.

It’s late at night when you head back home, a smile on your face and a lightness in your heart. He’s a good man, Sam Wilson. A good man that you don’t have to worry about keeping pretenses up around. No, with him, you can be yourself. You can be _Steve Rogers,_ and not Captain America. He reminds you of Bucky, but in a good way.

In fact, you’re in such a good mood coming back into your apartment that you try asking your neighbor Kate out on a date. She turns you down, but it seems like an open-ended rejection, so you take that as a win. But then she tells you that you left your stereo on, and everything goes to hell.

A beaten and bloodied Fury is sitting in your living room, talking in code and metaphors that you struggle to understand at first. He tells you that your apartment is bugged, that S.H.I.E.L.D. is compromised, that you two are all you can trust. And then –

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

Three high-powered slugs rip through your living room wall, tearing through Fury’s chest and abdomen, and he’s down, bleeding out on your floor as you drag him to safety.

“Don’t – trust – anyone –” are his last choked words to you as he presses the USB Romanoff had taken off the ship into your palm. Kate, who you _thought_ was a nurse, kicks in your door and announces herself as Agent 13 working for S.H.I.E.L.D. as private detail to Director Fury.

“Foxtrot is down,” she says into her walkie-talkie as she starts first aid. You look on in confusion.

“Do you have eyes on the shooter?”

You look out your window to the building across the way and see a wraith of a gunman with a metal arm turn away from the edge of the roof. You lift your shield to the ready position.

“Tell them I’m in pursuit.”

This assassin is fast – faster than humanly possible. You chase him through an office building, throw your shield at him with all the strength you can muster once you jump through a glass window onto the roof, but he just… _catches_ it.

The strange assailant _catches_ your shield with his metal appendage, the disc coming to a stop with a loud, chilling clang. He’s got long ragged hair, blue eyes that are all but hidden behind a raccoon’s mask of black war paint. A red star adorns the metal shoulder. He hurls the shield back to you after a slight tilt of his head, and your blood runs cold as the force of the throw sends you sliding back at least five feet across the glass-littered roof.

He’s _stronger_ than humanly possible, too. He might even be as strong as _you_.

The Man With the Metal Arm moves like a shadow, and vanishes just as quick, leaping off the roof and landing, it seems, nowhere.

Nick Fury dies on the operating table while you, Hill, and Natasha watch. Sitwell and Rumlow stand behind the three of you like a silent guard. You’re left with the mysterious USB drive, a disbelieving friend, and an increasingly hostile Alexander Pierce, and before you know it, you’re being attacked by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, throwing yourself out of an elevator at least thirty stories above the ground and smashing through a glass ceiling to crash painfully into the granite floor below.

You’re on the run, and when Romanoff catches up with you, you finally get the name of the strange gunman from her. He’s a Soviet sniper with over a dozen _credited_ kills in the last fifty years. He’s ghost story, an impossible man, but the scar from a gunshot that your friend shows you to the left of her belly button isn’t the work of a ghost.

“They call him the Winter Soldier.”

A shiver runs down your spine that you can’t explain.

Together, you and Romanoff trace the encryption on the mysterious USB Fury left you so you can find out what’s at the heart of all of this. You trace it all the way back to Camp Lehigh, and as you’re driving over, Romanoff asks about your dating life again.

“Believe it or not, it’s kind of hard to find people with shared life experience,” you say and Bucky’s smile flashes behind your eyes. Your conversation continues a little bit longer, and then just as the sun is setting you pull up outside the abandoned army base. Your birthplace – the birthplace of _S.H.I.E.L.D_

And when you figure everything out, you’re livid. So livid you punch straight through a computer screen.

HYDRA.

_Zola._

They were never gone. S.H.I.E.L.D. _is_ HYDRA. Utilizing the Winter Soldier, they’ve been selectively killing off those who would have posed a threat to them, and your anger mounts as you see Howard Stark’s file flash among those the sniper has killed.

Camp Lehigh blows up around you, and you barely have enough time to save yourself and Natasha from the inferno. And then, you’re running again, and this time you find yourself on Sam Wilson’s back porch. And as you take a shower, you take stock of your situation. You trust no one, _can_ trust no one except a soldier who reminds you of Bucky and a spy who reminds you of Peg (if not slightly less trustworthy). Ghosts of your past keeping you alive against what has turned out to be the same god damn enemy, and you hurt because it means everything was in vain. Losing Bucky, diving into the Arctic, losing your friends, your life, your goddamn world, all of it was for _nothing_ because HYDRA is _still fucking here_.

Sam drops a folder on his kitchen table, and that’s how you find out your Pararescue friend was hiding _a lot_ from you. Namely, Project Falcon and the fact that he, honestly, is a superhero in his own right. You and Romanoff steal his exosuit from the military, and soon you’ve got a wingman again. Together, the three of you kidnap Sitwell as he’s leaving a meeting with a senator and scare him into spilling all of Insights secrets.

You’re taking him back to base to use to bypass all the security measures when, without warning, the Winter Soldier attacks you on the highway.

He jumps on top of your car out of nowhere and tears Sitwell from his seat through the goddamn window, throws him screaming into oncoming traffic before you even know what’s happening. He rips the steering wheel clear out the windshield, and he would have killed you all if it hadn’t been for Natasha pulling each of you out of his line of fire. And once you shoulder open the car door and pull everyone out on top of you, it’s chaos. It’s a bewildering, fast-paced fight that barely lets you get your bearings before the next thing’s coming.

And before you can really react, a shell fired from the Winter Soldier’s rifle slams into your shield and you’re all but shot off the overpass and through the windshield of a city bus passing below.

The world goes dark.

Once you come and deal with the Gatling and machine guns trying to kill you, you look around in a confused flurry of movement. Sam gives you the go ahead from the overpass where he’s holed up with a machine gun. You’re not sure about what’s going on overall. What you do know though is that the Winter Soldier? He’s trying to kill Romanoff, hunting her down like some kind of twisted predator.

Your Commando. Your _friend._

And as you head towards them, you see him lift his weapon and fire.

Natasha jerks and falls as she runs behind a car, the sniper’s expert shot shattering the windshield and driver’s window of a car before tearing all the way through her thin body. You run. You run as fast as you’ve run in your life, because _no –_ you are _not_ letting this happen again. You are not losing another person, another friend. The monster, that’s what he is, slams his metal fist into your shield, stopping you dead in your tracks, and you know you’re in trouble.

He _is_ as fast as you.

God help you, he _is_ as strong as you, too.

What ensues is a dance of fists and knives, guns and shields, close quarter combat that ends with you slamming the edge of your shield up into your opponent’s terrifyingly half-masked face, and you grab him around his throat and under his chin with a single hand, flipping his heavy, pure-muscle body over your shoulder. As you turn to follow him, he summersaults across the ground, mask falling free. He rolls effortlessly to his feet, and you stop, lifting your shield ever so slightly to defend yourself and bracing your legs as he starts to turn around, adrenaline pumping mercilessly through your veins, and –

You lower the shield. Stand up straight. Leave yourself completely exposed to any form of attack with your arms slack at your sides, and even though you’re breathing heavily, there’s nothing getting into your lungs. You feel like you’re drowning all over again because the man – The Man With the Metal Arm, the Winter Soldier – he’s impossible, he’s wrong, it’s all wrong, he’s –

“Bucky?” you hear yourself ask breathlessly, voice unsteady and pleading, and as soon as you say his name, he frowns.

That face you’ve known nearly all your life shows no recognition, and _it’s all wrong_. The longer hair, the heartless blue eyes, the almost scowling expression, the five o’clock shadow, the god damn _metal arm_ , it’s not him. The monster that’s been chasing you, that’s punched clear through glass and metal, that’s shot men through walls, it’s _not_ Bucky, it _can’t_ be Bucky, it can’t be –

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

Your brain stops working, your heart shatters into a million pieces like it did that day on the mountain, the shards tearing apart your chest and deflating your lungs because _that voice_. That voice, you’d know that voice anywhere in any time, even after a million years you’d know that voice, and The Winter Soldier is _him_ , he’s _Bucky_. But it can’t be, Bucky’s dead, you _watched_ him die, watched him fall because _you_ couldn’t catch him, but he’s _here._ He’s _alive_ , and –

_The man’s expression flickers briefly in hesitant confusion, but only for a fraction of a second before his arm’s rising in lightning speed, gun in his hand –_

He’s trying to _kill you_.

You raise the shield too slow, half-heartedly, and just when you think you’re about to die at the hands of this ghost of your best friend – your other half – you hear the whistle of a shell behind you. The ground explodes in front of The Winter Sold – in front of _Bucky_ – and as soon as the air clears, he’s gone. He’s vanished with the smoke. You look back at Romanoff, see her slowly let the Soviet – _American –_ assassin’s heavy rifle fall from her shaking arms and to the ground. She’s trembling, bleeding heavily, barely holding herself up against the back of the truck she’s braced herself against.

And you look away from her, back to the empty air where _Bucky_ used to be. You’re lost. You can’t decide if you want to jump for joy or cry, and as you stand there in shock, dissociating from your body and the world around you, you see Rumlow’s men come running over, guns at the ready. You let your shield fall to the ground and slowly raise your hands to your shoulders. The metallic clang of vibranium on asphalt and the shouts of the men are muffled, the sound of the news helicopter hovering overhead as faint as a breeze. You don’t hear the instructions shouted at you, just follow the force of Rumlow’s hands as he pushes you down onto your knees and cuffs your hands behind your back. You move as easily as a child in his hands, and if you had bothered to look, you would have seen him looking at you in something twistedly close to concern.

Numb. You’re numb. Everything is static and distant, nothing matters, nothing can touch you, you’re numb and frozen, out of sync with everything around you, good god you might as well be back in the Arctic. And all your mind can think is a single name over and over again.

_Bucky…Bucky…Buck…_

He wasn’t dead.

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks, and now you want to cry. You feel your breath hitch in your chest because _he wasn’t dead_ , you just _left him for dead_ on that godforsaken mountain, left him to freeze all alone in the bitter cold, left him to turn the white snow red with his blood as his broken body lied there on the ragged ground and slowly died. He would have been too injured to move, too injured to try and save himself.

 _His arm,_ you realize, horrified. _Oh god, his arm, it must’ve been torn off in the fall_.

You feel sick to your stomach, nauseated by the image slowly coming together in your mind.

 _He was probably praying for you to come_ , the small voice in your head whispers to you. _Probably kept himself alive with the thought that you’d come for him. He was your brother, your blood. You stormed a HYDRA base and liberated thousands because he_ might _have been there. You knew where he was this time. He was sure he’d be okay. Can you imagine how scared he would have been? How much_ pain _he would have been in, lying there with his arm brutally ripped off or at the very least mangled beyond salvation?_

 _Please stop,_ you beg your mind, but it keeps going, supplying the details with brutal vividness like the artist you are.

 _Can’t you hear him? Can’t you hear him whispering to himself, staring up at the falling snow with fading eyes? Can’t you hear his voice? The way it would croak and break as the pain overwhelmed him? Can’t you hear the way he’d cough and choke as blood filled his lungs and worked its way up his throat? Can’t you see the way the cold would crack his lips? The way the blood and tears would freeze as he kept whispering over and over ‘Steve’ll come for me, Steve’s coming, Steve, Steve_ , Steve –

Stop…

_But you…didn’t…come._

If your heart weren’t already in pieces, it would have broken again. Instead, it feels like the fragments are slowly disintegrating, corroding away into a bitter acid that burns down your insides as you feel yourself marched towards the back of an armored truck. You vaguely notice them bringing Sam and Romanoff over in restraints as well.

_When do you think he realized you left him there to die?_

You close your eyes and fight back the tears as Rumlow shoves you into the restraints on your chair. You don’t fight back. You just let it all happen. You don’t see how Romanoff and Sam share a worried glance as you slowly open your eyes and just stare silently at the steel plated floor. But while you look completely still, your mind is anything but.

 _Do you think he was too delirious to know that it was the Soviets who found him and not the Allies? Or was he still awake? Did he beg them for help? Or did he beg them for mercy when he realized what they were going to do to him? How long did he scream your name while they cut into him? How long before he accepted that you’d abandoned him to_ this _?_

You close your eyes briefly once more. You can tell from Romanoff and Sam’s worried expressions that they know what happened. They know who it was. And finally, if for no other reason than to shut up your mind, you start talking.

“It was him.” You see Sam look at you immediately, startled that you’re suddenly speaking. Your words sound odd to your ears, like you sounded seventy years ago. _I have to file an incident report_. “He looked right at me…like he didn’t even know me.”

“How is that even possible?” Sam asks, always the voice of reason. _Like Bucky._ The similarities that once gave you comfort now make your slowly reassembling heart break apart again. “It was, like, seventy years ago.”

How? How was it possible? It clicks in your head, and the name falls from your lips like venom as you continue to stare at the floor.

“ _Zola_. Bucky’s whole unit was captured in ’43, Zola experimented on him.” You speak in a rush, like you’re trying to limit the time you have to dwell on the memory. Your gut twists, and you slowly look up at the others as you continue. Your voice betrays nothing of your shaken interior. “Whatever he did helped Bucky survive the fall.”

 _And you left him there._ Your composure starts to crumble as you continue. _You left him to die_.

“They must’ve found him there, and…”

“None of that’s your fault, Steve,” Romanoff interrupts, voice strained from pain. She’s always been able to see through you…so like Peggy.

_“It wasn’t your fault, Steve.”_

You don’t listen to her. Can’t listen to her. You just slowly look back down and away, the guilt weighing you down until you can barely breathe, can barely speak. Every word is drawn out of you painfully slowly as you finally voice what’s been tearing you apart inside.

“Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.” _And when he had nothing, I abandoned him_.

You can’t think, you’re too shaken, too engrossed in your own world. You don’t even notice the pain your fellow Avenger is in, the way she bites her tongue and rests her head back against the rattling side of the truck in an effort to stay quiet. You’re too far gone to react when one of the guards threatens Sam with a stun baton, or even when the guard turns her weapon on her partner and removes her helmet to reveal herself as Agent Maria Hill. Instead, you just follow orders, follow instructions, like the good soldier you are, and soon you find yourself climbing into the back of a S.H.I.E.L.D. car on the way to some underground safe house.

You don’t snap out of your fugue state until the getaway car pulls up outside what looks like a dam, and you help Romanoff out of the car, Sam all but holding her up. She looks like she’s about to pass out, and you want to hate yourself for being so self-absorbed you didn’t notice. But she doesn’t look like she’s holding it against you. Neither is Sam, and you remember Riley. You think about everyone Natasha has lost. And you realize that they understand. They’re not holding this against you.

And it’s good, because you don’t truly shake yourself free until you see _him_. Until you see Director Fury lying there in a makeshift hospital bed, beat to hell but alive. The moment you see him, your mind is suddenly clear. You’re still thinking about Bucky, but for now your mind has settled on an emotion.

And it is anger. You are _furious_. You’re ready to fight an army because Romanoff was right. This wasn’t your fault. Not entirely. You couldn’t have known he was alive. Should you have gone to find him? Yes. But you couldn’t have known that he was alive, couldn’t have known that your best friend in the world had been turned into a brainwashed Soviet assassin, a ghost story, a bogeyman. But Fury?

If anyone on this planet knew about Bucky, about the Winter Soldier, it would be Nicolas J. Fury. It would be that smug son of a bitch. The man with no morals, the man who pulled all the strings in this play without so much as a thought to the lives he was destroying in the process.

And right now, if there weren’t other people in the room and the Director wasn’t half-dead, you would deck the bastard so hard you’d shatter the man’s jaw past repair. But there _are_ people in the room, the man _is_ half-dead, so you content yourself with silent glaring and tense conversation.

You’re still silently glaring and tensely conversing when Hill and Fury lay out the plan to take down the Insight carriers. You’re still thinking about the secret that had been kept from you, the man time had left behind; your second half who didn’t get the happy ending – who wasn’t pulled from the cold by friendly hands.

So when Fury says the plan is to salvage what is left of S.H.I.E.L.D., you snap. And after a few half-shouted exchanges, you finally let loose.

“You gave me this mission, _this_ is how it ends! S.H.I.E.L.D.’s been compromised, you said so _yourself_. HYDRA grew right under your nose, and _nobody_ noticed!” Fury’s response is annoyed and sarcastic, and it does nothing to help assuage your anger.

“Why do you think we’re meeting in this cave? I _noticed_.”

“How many paid the price before you did?” you all but snarl, expression stony and eyes blazing.

“Look.” For once in his life, Fury sounds genuine, submissive. “I didn’t know about Barnes.”

“Even if you _had_ ,” you throw back, feeling sickened by the depth of your hurt and anger, “would you have _told me?_ Or would you have compartmentalized that, too?” The man has no response, and part of you is glad. For once he’s not bullshitting you. “S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA…it all goes.”

No one argues with you. In fact, they agree with you, and you think back to a quote you’d found and kept close after you came out of the ice.

_There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man._

And you? When Bucky’s involved, you’re all goddamn three.

Once you iron out the plans, you quickly leave the dam’s interior, climbing up the stairs to the access door at the top and walking out onto the top of the rust-streaked structure. You stand there, looking out over the wide river, and finally allow yourself a moment. You brace your arms against the railing, head bowed, and honestly, you expected tears. You expect a scream. Something. But there’s nothing. It’s still too fresh, still too numb. You swallow hard and squeeze your eyes shut.

_I’m sorry, Buck. I’m so sorry._

You don’t allow yourself very long, probably fifteen seconds tops. The concrete is cold under your hands, the golden brown dust staining your palms and fingers as you clench your fingers tightly, taking deep breaths of the fresh air and bottling everything back up inside. You take in a particularly deep breath and step back from the railing, shoving your hands in your pockets and looking out over the water again, breathing deep and steadily.

 _“We looked for you after_ ,” you hear Bucky’s voice say, and you let your gaze shift downwards. _“My folks wanted to give you a ride to the cemetery.”_

_“I know, I’m sorry. I just kind of wanted to be alone.”_

Simpler times. You think back to those simpler times, to the conversation that followed, to Bucky’s voice – a voice that you’d impossibly heard not two hours ago, a voice you’d though you’d never get to hear again – saying that phrase. That goddamn phrase that seemingly defines you both now forever.

_“I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.”_

Even now, just an echo of a memory, the words make something in your chest both tighten and expand painfully, and you take in another deep breath.

“I’m bringing you home, Buck,” you whisper out loud, and unbeknownst to you, Sam Wilson watches from the door you exited from. “I promise.”

“He’s gonna be there, you know” is how Sam lets you know he’s there, walking out to you. _Riley._ He had Riley, he knows what you’re going through.

“I know,” you answer solemnly. You don’t look at him. Don’t acknowledge his presence beyond the continued conversation.

“Look, whoever he used to be and the guy he is now…” He stops apologetically, but you both know what he’s going to say. “I don’t think he’s the kind you save. He’s the kind you stop.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” you admit, still not looking at him. It’s a lie. You _know_ you can’t do that.

“Well, he might not give you a choice. He _doesn’t_ know you.” Bucky’s voice of reason. Always Bucky’s voice of reason, but if there’s anything you know about you and Bucky, it’s that you never did do what he said. You nod slightly to yourself and finally look to your new partner.

“He will.”

And you mean it.

With every fiber of your being, you mean it.

And it starts with stealing your old 40s uniform from the Smithsonian. You’re going to give Bucky as many cues as you can, as many familiar elements as you can, to try and jog his memory. You know he’s still in there. You saw the hesitation, the confusion after he said “Who the hell is Bucky?” He knew something. Remembered something. Somehow, somewhere in the Winter Soldier’s mind, Bucky Barnes is still alive.

And god damn it, you are going to save him. You might be seventy years late, but you are going to bring him home if it kills you. You owe him that much.

Infiltrating S.H.I.E.L.D. is ridiculously easy. Hijacking the PA system to deliver a rousing speech you’d planned on the way over even simpler. And while you mean what you say, your mind is occupied with thoughts of your friend, of your other half that you need to pull out of the oblivion of his own mind. Of your other half that you will no doubt have to fight again. The thoughts continue to plague you as your team starts the plan, and you begin dismantling the helicarriers.

_The Winter Soldier marches out onto the flight deck, mask gone and weapon free._

You can’t help but think of the twelve-year-old boy with the gap toothed pirate grin. Of the thirteen year old who built forts out of your couch cushions and ratty blankets.

_Singlehandedly, he takes out five quinjets, kills as many crews. He walks away without a single scratch, expression flat and cold._

You can’t help but think of the boy who taught you how to ice skate, the boy who taught you how to dance, the boy who was always there with you every step of the way. Of the teenager who took you to Coney Island and laughed at you as you threw up, of the young adult who joined an art class with you so you wouldn’t be alone, of the man who took you into his family once yours had passed away.

_He jumps onto a sixth, kills the pilot, rips the door off its hinges with his metal arm, and takes the copilot’s seat._

You’ve just landed on top of the third and final helicarrier with Falcon when Bucky blindsides you, knocking you down the side of the vessel and grabbing one of Sam’s wings as he dives down to help you. In a matter of seconds, you see Sam go plummeting past you towards the earth so far below, a whole wing ripped off his exosuit, and you know, _you know_ , it’s the Soldier’s handiwork.

_“Let’s hear it for Captain America!  
_

Sam’s okay. He tells you over the comms that he’s alive, but his suit’s down. You’re on your own. And as you start towards the belly of the metal beast, something cold settles in your gut as the Winter Soldier doesn’t attack you. He’s nowhere to be found. And while that makes your movement easy, every step makes you more and more tense.

_“You’re keeping the uniform, right?”_

Because as Sam said, he would be there. It was only a matter of time before you crossed paths.

_“You remember that time I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island? This isn’t payback is it?”_

You quickly descend the stairs down into the bottom of the helicarrier, running down across the catwalk and towards the central computer. But you’re no more than halfway across when slowly you come to a stop. Your shoulders sag, your arms hang heavy at your sides. You can feel your stomach sinking, your expression slowly growing pained, and you sigh, heart breaking on the exhale.

Bucky, the Winter Soldier, whoever he is, stands before you. His expression is that same flat, menacing stare. His mask is gone, and there’s a set clench to his jaw that tells you he isn’t going to stand aside. This is his mission, just as it is yours.

“People are gonna die, Buck,” you try, looking for that same flicker of recognition, that moment of hesitation at the sound of his name.

There is nothing. _What have they done to you?_

You take in a deep breath, and what you say next is more for yourself than the menacing figure opposite you.

“I can’t let that happen."

_No matter what happens, I can’t let people die. No matter what happens._

Even if it means letting _Him_ go.

Still, there is no response from Bucky, and, expression still tortured, you wait a few seconds longer, begging every higher power you can think of that the sight of you in your old uniform and the sound of your voice, the sound of your voice saying his _name_ , saying _Buck_ , would knock something free in his head. But there’s nothing, and you think back to the last time you two were in this position.

It was another era, in a Krausberg that no longer exists, Red Skull and Zola running to escape while a sea of flames stood between you and Bucky. Your best friend – weak from torture and malnourishment – was on the side with the exit, staring at you with wide, scared yet believing eyes, clutching weakly to the railing to hold himself up. And you, trapped on the burning side of a crumbling warehouse with no escape except to take a flying leap of faith towards the man you’d thrown everything away for and pray to God that you would make it across. Even now, you can hear Bucky’s screamed response to your shout for him to run, to get out of there.

_“NO, NOT WITHOUT YOU!”_

_Not without you, Buck._ You take in a deep breath and fight back the tears that make your voice warble.

“ _Please_ don’t make me do this.”

Almost imperceptibly, the Winter Soldier bows his head, staring at you with a calm, set expression, and you know. There’s no avoiding this. There’s no getting away.

_“I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.”_

If this was the end of the line, so be it.

You make the first move, hurling your shield at him, and he blocks it with his metal arm, rebounding it back to your hands and drawing both handguns in the same movement. As you advance on him, blocking his shots, you get progressively closer until, within only five seconds of your fight beginning, a shot rings out that doesn’t ricochet off metal, and your side erupts in agony as a bullet tears through your body.

As you stumble back, dazed and in pain, he advances on you with a knife, twirling it in his hand in an experienced, alien move – a skill _they_ implanted in his head. As you grapple with each other, he kicks your right knee in, sends sparks flying off your shield. No matter how hard you hit him, you can never get enough time to switch out the chips, can never drive him back enough to actually do your job. But you can’t bring yourself to cripple him. Can’t bring yourself to actually harm him.

Because even though there’s a feral snarl to his mouth now, you remember how it would look when he smiled. Even though there’s a deadly gleam to his eyes now, you remember how they looked when he was planning a prank on your cranky old neighbor. Even though you’re fighting for your life against him, you remember how he taught you to dance. Remember sleeping next to him. And even though his voice now is a feral roar as he punches you in the stomach, throwing you both over the edge of the catwalk and to the glass floor far below, you remember how he sounded when he would laugh.

He pulls the knife on you again, charging you, and you scream in pain as he drives the blade down into your right shoulder with all the mechanical force of his left arm, and he splits open the corner of your mouth with a vicious punch. He lunges for the computer chip, snatching it up in the fray, and you pull his flesh arm back behind his body. Pin him down in a way that’ll allow you to dislocate his shoulder.

“Drop it!” you beg, watching him clench the chip so tightly in his hand you’re afraid he’s going to cut himself. _“Drop it!”_ When he doesn’t relinquish his grip, you grit your teeth and yank back.

Bucky howls in your arms as his shoulder cracks sickeningly, and you flip down onto your back, pulling him on top of you, and immediately put him in a choke hold. Your heart breaks with every move you make, and you quickly pin his leg with one of your own, using the other to lock down the metal arm with your super strength.

He gasps and chokes in your arms, thrashing and trying to find a way out as he slowly suffocates, and you blink back tears as he goes still and the chip falls from his grasp. You lie there for a moment, and all you want to do is stay there, hold him tightly to yourself and never let go. But you have a job to do.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

You gently push him off of you, setting him on the ground before running for the central computer again. You have to swap the data cards before he wakes up.

You’re in the middle of running back up when a shot rings out and fire tears into the back of your left thigh, making the whole limb lock up and sending you crashing to the ground.

Bucky _._

_No. No, please don’t do this._

You get up and continue running, jumping up and climbing towards the top level. A second shot, and you shout through gritted teeth as another bullet rips into the back of your shoulder, and your right arm is suddenly useless, leaving you hanging there by one arm. Groaning, you force the damaged limb up and pull yourself onto the catwalk, hobbling towards the computer. You can do this. You _have to_ do this.

You have to do this without hurting _him_.

You’re almost there. You’re about to swap out the cards, it’s almost over –

“Charlie loc–”

 _BANG_.

Your voice cuts off in a strangled sound, and you collapse, the pain so sharp you can’t get a full breath, and you shakily look to the man you once knew far below you. He lowers his metal arm, and even from this distance you can see the perverse pleasure in his eyes. And as he smiles, you feel something inside you die.

You can’t breathe properly. Every inhale hurts horribly, hitches not even halfway through, and you look wildly around yourself for something, anything to help you. You seem to have lost all strength, and finally, slowly, you look down with jerky slowness at the red stain slowly spreading across your abdomen – a through and through passing right under your sternum, no doubt shredding your diaphragm and probably severely damaging your liver, possibly even nicking your stomach. Your breath shudders and catches in ragged gasps, your arms lie uselessly at your sides.

 _Oh, Buck_ , you think weakly, body shaking and sagging back against the electronic panel as your blood steadily pools beneath you. _Oh, Buck, no…_

And right then, you know it’s over. With a herculean effort, you pull yourself up and switch the chips. After a few moments of arguing with Hill, you feel the helicarrier shudder and start collapsing around you as the three crafts fire upon each other and start to fall from the sky.

_I’m with you to the end of the line, pal._

You wrench yourself into a barely standing position and drag yourself along the catwalk towards the stairs you’d come down as the helicarrier breaks apart. Every step is agony, and you’re about to keel over when a scream echoes up to you from below – from where Bucky had been standing, and your heart stops as you all but double over the railing. He’s been pinned down by the collapsing ceiling beams, and the way he’s writhing and straining to get free reminds you of a trapped animal.

“Buck,” you breathe, coughing on your blood-wet breaths, and, groaning in pain, pull yourself over the edge of the catwalk railing and drop to the floor. Your body collapses with a loud thud, and Bucky immediately looks over at you, eyes wide with fear, and redoubles his efforts to get free, no doubt terrified you’re going to kill him where he lies.

 _No…no, Buck,_ you think pityingly though the pain, struggling to get your arms under the beam and lift it off of him. It’s massive, far bigger and heavier than anything you’ve ever lifted before, but you have to make it work. You have to do the impossible, have to get him free. And as you strain upwards, lifting the heavy steel off Bucky bit by bit, he wrenches himself loose, pulling himself from under the wreckage with his metal arm and holding the flesh one you dislocated close to his chest.

There’s a loud thud as you let the beam crash back down, and you both sit there for a moment, Bucky braced on his hands and knees, expression terrified and confused, you swaying dangerously on your knees, vision swimming as you fight to stay conscious.

It’s now or never. This is it.

This… _this_ is the end of the line.

“You know me,” you croak, moving towards the hunched over man. The result is instantaneous, vicious.

“No I _don’t!”_ he shouts, voice hoarse, and his metal fist crashes in a wild roundhouse swing into your shield, sending you flying backwards and him stumbling back to his knees. Slowly you both stand up, and you can see the confusion, can see the panic in your friend’s face.

_End of the line._

_“Bucky,”_ you beg, still holding the shield in front of you, and he slowly looks at you, eyes wild, chest heaving. You’re almost there. You almost have him. You can see him there, just below the surface, and you reach out again. “You’ve known me your whole life.”

A quick shift of the eyes, a trapped animal, and then he’s roaring again, sending his metal fist backhanding across your already battered face. You fly backwards and slam painfully into ragged metal as the ship shudders beneath you and speeds towards the Potomac below. You don’t have much time.

“Your _name_ …is _James…Buchanan…Barnes,_ ” you pant, struggling to get back to your feet, and no sooner are you standing, no sooner are you done talking than your friend sends his fist crashing into your shield.

 _“SHUT UP!”_ His voice is tortured, pained, and you both go crashing back down to the floor, too tired and too hurt to keep your feet under you. He’s breathing heavily, and when he looks up at you, you can’t even begin to decipher the emotion you see there. You stumble to your feet, wrenching off your helmet and letting it fall to the floor.

“I’m not gonna fight you,” you gasp, throwing the shield down and listening as it falls through a broken glass panel and into the water below. Now, it’s just the two of you. No weapons, no masks. “You’re my _friend_. 

There’s another pause before, expression resolute, Bucky roars again, charging you and slamming you down onto the ground so he’s straddling your waist, flesh hand holding weakly onto your uniform while the metal one pulls back in a fist.

“You’re my _mission_ ,” he snarls back, but there’s something unsteady to his voice. Like he’s trying to tell himself rather than you. And with that he sends the vibranium hand crashing _once – twice – three times_ into your face so hard that your head snaps back brutally with each strike. You do nothing to protect yourself. You just lie there, completely still. _“You’re–”_ four _“–my–”_ five _“–mission!”_ Six.

You can barely see, can barely breathe, and Bucky stops, rocking over you slightly, breathing heavy and ragged. He pulls his arm back even further than he had on the other punches, clearly preparing himself for one final, killing blow.

And still you hold true to your promise. You make no move to defend yourself, no move to touch him. You’re not going to fight him. You _can’t_ fight him, _can’t_ hurt him. _Your Bucky_. If you’re going to die, if this is how your story ends, it’s going to be right beside him. As it always should have been.

“Then finish it,” you croak through split and bloodied lips. “ ’Cause I’m with you to the end of the line.”

And as you watch through tear-blurred eyes, the angry expression above you changes.

_Shock._

_Pain._

_Realization._

_Fear._

You have him.

 _No_ – you can see the horrified word on the tip of his tongue, the begging denial, and weakly, almost imperceptibly, you nod.

 _It’s okay_ , you want to say. _It’s okay, Buck. You’re home. You’re safe. I’ve got you_.

 _“I’m here_. _It’s over. It’s all over now. You’re safe, Buck. It’s over. I promise.”_

But instead, the glass floor shatters beneath crashing debris, and you plummet towards the water as Bucky hangs from the railing above you with his metal arm. You’re spread-eagled, arms extended to the sides, and you watch as the roles are finally reversed as you fall away from your friend. As you take the fall Bucky never should have. You hit the water so hard you’re sure a few of your ribs break, and your vision slowly starts to black out as you sink further and further into the water. You don’t have the strength to pull yourself back to the surface, but on some level you don’t think you want to.

You deserve this. You deserve all of this – slowly sinking down to your death with the wreckage of SHIELD and everything you believed in sinking beside you, falling away from your Bucky, from the man you failed to catch seventy years ago, the old friend you condemned to a fate worse than death, _betrayed…_

The light slowly fades from the surface so far above you, and you think as you finally black out, water flooding into your lungs, _yes. I deserve this._

Some small, hopeful part of your mind thinks it sees a metal hand reaching towards you. But the rest of you thinks _yes._

_I deserve this._

So, it’s a bit of a shock when you wake up in a hospital, aching all over, with a battered, but alive, Sam Wilson beside you. And the hopeful part of your mind sings with joy.

As soon as you are discharged (against doctor’s orders – some things never change), you immediately set up a rendezvous with Romanoff, asking her to pull in some favors in Kiev to get whatever she can on the Winter Soldier.

What she brings you makes you sick.

As you flip through the folder labeled Case No. 17 over the course of the next week, you feel your heart break more and more. Your guilt skyrockets if at all possible, and at a couple points, you have to set it aside. A few times, you’d gagged into the sink. The pictures of the methods they used to break him, the procedures they’d done to reinforce his spine for the weight of the arm, let alone assemble the damn thing…the way they tested whether or not the bionic limb could successfully feel pain…

All of this because you didn’t catch him.

You think back to the oddly shaped bruises Bucky had had on his face when you rescued him from Krausberg, and you bury your head in your hands, fingers threading through your messy, three-days-unwashed hair as you think about the thousands upon thousands of volts of electricity they had pumped through your Bucky’s head, trying and trying to wipe away all his memories. Trying to turn him into a blank slate they could turn into a weapon. And you shudder as you realize that, eventually, they succeeded. You look back at the pictures of all the different cryogenic and mind-wipe machines – some with Bucky in them, dead eyed and attached to so many wires and tubes he didn’t even look human anymore– and you’re running for the bathroom again, dry-heaving into the toilet.

Again, the memory of the 12 year old who saved you in that alley all those years ago flashes behind your eyes, and this time you actually vomit.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” you whisper for the hundred thousandth time, resting your forehead against the cold porcelain. “ _Fuck_ , I’m so sorry.”

Sam returns after chasing down yet another cold lead and sits down heavily beside you on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.

Mercifully, he also doesn’t comment on the images and documents he’s seen strewn around the apartment or the fact that your eyes are swollen and red.

“We’ll find him,” you say stubbornly after a half an hour of silence, and Sam nods.

“I know.”

A year later you still haven’t. Sokovia happens. You lose another kid – the speedster, Pietro Maximoff. His twin sister’s scream echoes across the ruins of the flying city, sending shivers down your spine, because you know that pain, that sound. That was the sound your heart made when Bucky fell. You gather the boy up in your arms, trying not to look at the bloody bullet holes riddling his young body, and carry him onboard the escape vessel.

You’ve learned your lesson about leaving people for dead.

And while you and Tony part on amicable terms, you can’t help but feel frustrated at his arrogance, at how he created Ultron in good conscience. How he created the monster that killed hundreds of people, leveled an entire city. And yet, at the end of the day, _you all_ were the ones left standing while all those innocents died. You all – the _gods_ among man. You redouble your efforts to find Bucky after that, and as far as possible try not to think about Tony.

You try not to think about the fact that the man you’re looking for killed your teammate’s father. That Bucky has killed at least one of his friends.

A second year rolls by, and everything goes to hell.


	6. Where We Shall Live, Die, Repeat

It starts with Rumlow in Lagos.

“You know he knew you,” he pants on his knees before you, full of spite. “Your pal, your buddy, your _Bucky._ ” Your heart stops in your chest, and you grab a hold of him.

“What did you say?”

“He remembered you.” He’s playing you. You know it. But you can’t help but listen. “I was there. He got all _weepy_ about it!” A twisted smirk contorts his already disfigured face, and you know you should stop listening now but you can’t. “‘Til they put his brain back in the blender.” You’re frozen. You can’t breathe, can’t make him stop. “He wanted you to know something. He said to me, ‘Please tell Rogers…’” _Stop listening._ _Stop, stop, STOP._ “When you gotta go, you gotta go."

You’re shaken to your core. You’re suddenly lying in your bed in Brooklyn in 1940, you’ve just buried your mother, and Bucky’s sitting next to you, gently rubbing your back as you quietly sob.

 _I’m sorry, Steve,_ he’s whispering. _I’m so sorry._ He pulls you up and holds onto you, your arms locking around his neck as you end up sitting practically in his lap. _It was her time, Steve... It’s not fair, it’s not right. But it’s just how it is. When you gotta go, you gotta go._

You’re still paralyzed when, just as you knew he would, Rumlow pulls his trick. And you can only watch in horror as your mistake blows up two entire floors of a Wakandan humanitarian office. Can only watch as your blindness kills innocent civilians, and Lagos is on every news station.

Then, it’s Peggy. You’re in the middle of an argument with Tony about the Accords, about what happened in Nigeria, when you get a text from Sharon.

_She’s gone. In her sleep._

You excuse yourself, but you only make it to the bottom of the stairs before you lean against the bannister, bow your head, and start to sob.

_“When you gotta go, you gotta go.”_

You’re a wreck at the funeral. You make no effort to hide your pain or your tears as you help carry her casket down the aisle, and you try not to think about how once you’d dreamed of doing this with her when you were younger. Dressed in white instead of black. And you realize afterwards that it really is only you and Bucky left now. You’re all the other has left, and now you want to find him more than ever.

You _need_ to find him.

But there are some days when the universe decides to just pile it on.

The world it seems has turned against you almost overnight. Most countries on the planet are calling for you and all other powered individuals to register with the government by signing the Sokovia Accords or else face incarceration on the Raft – a prison out in the middle of the ocean where you’ll get no representation, where you’ll have no rights. The Holocaust is still fresh in your mind - the rhetoric of Adolf Hitler against the Jewish, the homosexuals, the disabled still rings in your ears. There is no way in hell that you’ll sign these Accords. Now, more than ever, you want Bucky by your side.

And then the UN Assembly for the ratification of the Accords is bombed. King T'Chaka of Wakanda is killed. And Bucky’s face is put on every television on every continent as the attacker. Entire nations are hunting him now, blaming him for the bombing – something you know he’d never do. Or at least something you know he’d never do _willingly_. But no one will listen to you, just as no one will listen to you about the Accords. You feel like Cassandra in the story of the Trojan Horse, running around and trying to warn everyone of the disaster coming, of the _truth,_ but no one will listen.

Except for Sharon Carter. Always the Carters have your back.

The search for Bucky has turned into a manhunt with orders to shoot to kill if necessary, and just when you think you’re going to fail your best friend _again_ , Sharon Carter, wonderful Sharon Carter pulls through and gives you his location before the authorities. It’s a race of who will get to him first, and mercifully, it’s you. You step into his apartment. It’s ratty and Spartan, and you glance at the processed food he has stacked on the shelves. There are a few notebooks lying around, and as you flip through one you realize they’re memories. These are Bucky’s attempts to piece together what happened to him, who he was, where he came from. When you turn around, you have to fight jumping, because he’s _right there_. Bucky is standing _right there_. If you reached out, you could have touched him.

And if the situation wasn’t so dire, you would have laughed, because is that a bag of _plums?_

As you look at him, you realize just how malnourished he’d been two years ago. How poorly HYDRA had taken care of him. There is a healthy weight to him now, his hair is cleaner, and his face doesn’t look as gaunt. He looks more like Bucky than the Winter Soldier. And as you quickly talk to him, explain what’s going on, you see that the man you’re talking to isn’t the Soldier. It’s _him_. It’s _Bucky_. But he isn’t cooperating. Isn’t coming with you, isn’t telling you the things you want to hear, and for a moment you lose your patience.

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.”

“It always ends in a fight,” he murmurs to himself as Sam counts down how long the two of you have before German Special Forces come busting in. He pulls the glove off his metal hand, and you can see the defeated slump of his shoulders, can hear the broken note in his voice.

“You _pulled_ me from the river! _Why?”_ you demand, voice unintentionally hard in your urgency. You don’t have long.

“ _Five seconds.”_

“I don’t know,” he answers, voice tight and a little shaky, his eyes filled with pain, and you know he’s lying.

“Yes. You do.” Your voice is as gentle as you can make it right now, which isn’t very, and he looks at you almost like he’s sorry for you. You _know_ why he saved you. _He_ knows why he saved you. But you can’t pursue it further because Sam’s suddenly shouting “ _Breach! Breach!”_ in your ear and the two of you are fighting for your lives again as the one-room apartment comes under siege.

And you realize that there are some things time can’t un-program, and as you catch a man Bucky throws down an at least six-floor stairwell, you know this isn’t the man you knew seventy years ago. But at the same time, he’s _still_ not the Winter Soldier. True to his word, he hasn’t _outright_ killed anyone yet. He still isn’t cooperating with you, though. He keeps running from you until finally you’re both caught by the German SF – run down by Wakandan Prince T’Challa in his Black Panther guise. And you want to grab Bucky and ask him why, want to shake him and demand to know why he won’t trust you.

Doesn’t he know it’s you? Doesn’t he know it’s his Steve?

Doesn’t he know that you would go to the ends of the earth to protect him, that you’d burn whole countries down to keep him safe? That all your life, that’s all you’ve ever done, all you’ve ever wanted to do?

 _Doesn’t he also know that you were the one who left him to the Soviets?_ that small voice adds.

You are going to show him that he is your world. You’re going to break him out. You’re going to run away with him, find some far corner of the world where no one will find you, where no one will be able to touch him ever again.

Baron Zemo beats you to it. The bastard triggers Bucky’s Winter Soldier programming once he’s in Ross’ custody, and your heart breaks as you walk through the rooms littered with bodies that had been absent at the apartment building. And you realize that yes. Bucky _had_ been holding back when you’d found him. This… _this_ was who your friend was now. This was the beast he was fighting to keep inside.

You chase him down to the roof where he’s climbing into a helicopter, and you know that this is your last chance. If he gets away now, the next time you’ll see him he’ll be in a body bag. So you run. You jump. And you pull down a goddamn chopper with your bare hands. You anchor it to the ground with nothing more than your sheer strength, and you grit your teeth as you feel your muscles, ligaments, and tendons pull and tear, but you don’t let go. You feel like you’re about to be torn in half, but you don’t let go. You _won’t_ let go. _Can’t_ let go.

Not this time.

Not even when he tries to crash the vehicle into you, blades ripping apart the concrete around you. Not even when he grabs a hold of your throat as the helicopter slips off the pad and drags both you and him down into the ocean below. He’s knocked unconscious in the crash, and you open the cockpit door, pulling Bucky out of the wreckage as quickly as you can and holding him close as you kick for the surface. You gasp for breath as you break out of the water, one arm wrapped tightly around Buck’s weakly moving chest while you swim to shore with the other.

You pull Bucky out of the water after you, quickly picking him up bridal style and holding his soaking body close to your chest. His head rests limply against your shoulder, tucked into your neck, and you look around, heart pounding. You’ll be found soon. You need to hide, need to get away –

That’s when Sam pulls up in a car, and you quickly get in the back, laying Bucky down across the seats with the utmost care. You climb in after him, letting his head and shoulders rest in your lap as Sam floors it. You don’t know where you’re going. Don’t ask questions. You trust Wilson to take you somewhere safe. And now that you’re away, now that everything has slowed down, you let yourself look down. _Really_ look.

Your heart swells with love, and you give a small, pained smile as you gently pull the wet strands of hair from Bucky’s face and tuck them back behind his ears. He’s breathing easily. Nothing seems broken. In fact, he looks like he’s in perfect health, save for a few bruises and scrapes. His left elbow presses a little painfully into your gut, so you lift the deceptively heavy prosthetic up and rest it over his stomach. You shift the arm you have tucked under his head and squeeze his flesh shoulder. Your free hand slowly grabs a hold of his left, and you lace your fingers in with the metal. You know he could wake up at any moment. You know he could be anyone when he does, and you’d be completely at his mercy. This is a dangerous position.

It’s dangerous, and you take in a deep breath that infuses you with so much life – more life than you’d felt coursing through your veins in seventy years – because he’s here. He’s here in your arms, and it takes all your self-restraint not to pick him up, bury your face into his neck, and just smile. Laugh. Cry. Because he’s here. He’s here, and he’s safe in your arms. But holding his hand right now is risky enough, holding him the way you want to would be tempting the devil. So instead, you gently smooth his hair back the way he used to when you got sick in the pre-serum winters. God help you, all you want to do is go back to those times.

Those times where it was just you and him. Without HYDRA. Without generals and directors. Without the side-eyes from people you considered friends, without the backstabbing. Without foreign nationals chasing you across the goddamn planet.

Just you and him in that tiny one room apartment, barely managing to get by but finding joy in each other and dinners of baked beans and hotdogs.

“It’s okay now, Buck,” you whisper, and you see his brow furrow ever so slightly. Quickly you smooth a thumb over the worried skin, and he relaxes again. “You’re okay.”

Sam watches you two in the rearview mirror, and after an hour of silent driving he pulls up in front of an old warehouse.

“Steve.” You look up at him and immediately recover your composure. “We’re here.” You look out the window and nod.

“Okay. Help me get him inside.”

It turns out the building is an abandoned workshop, and you feel your stomach twist nauseatingly as you and Sam prop Bucky’s still unconscious form up on a crate next to a drill press and trap his metal arm in the powerful vice. It makes you think of the small, cell-like cube General Ross had trapped Bucky in before, the electrified chair they’d strapped him into, and oh god, you’re no better than them.

“I can’t. I–”

“Steve,” Sam begins as you all but flee the tiny space to pace back and forth in the next room. Your hands rest tensely on your hips, and you look down at the dusty floor as you move restlessly. Sam looks at you sadly from the doorway. _“Steve._ You know we have to do this. It’s for his own safety.”

“Just tell me when he wakes up.”

He does. Calls you over as soon as Bucky starts to move about another hour and a half later, and it _is_ Bucky this time. It _is_ him. You smile, a small exhale of a laugh escaping your lips as he says, “your mother’s name was Sarah. You used to wear newspapers in your shoes.”

He tells you about the other Winter Soldiers, about the red notebook. Explains the trigger words. You lift the vice off of him and help him to his feet. But he looks at you with a guarded expression, and you slowly back off even though it breaks your heart. He’s still got that cagey look to him that you recognize from the helicarrier, and even though he remembers you – at least bits and pieces he picked up from the Smithsonian and his kaleidoscope memory – you know everything’s still unfamiliar, still a terrifying mess.

“Hey,” you say gently and tentatively reach out to put a hand on his shoulder. He tenses briefly before relaxing under your touch. He looks up at you, and you can still see the wariness in his eyes. “You’re okay now. Alright? We’re here to keep you safe. Zemo won’t be able to use you anymore. No one will. We won’t let them. _I_ won’t.” A few moments pass before the ragged man nods once ever so slightly.

“I know.” He takes in a shaky breath, and you tighten your hold on his shoulder. “You–” He clears his throat. “You still a dumbass punk?”

“Always, pal,” you smile and gently cup the back of his head. “You still a jerk?” He blinks at you in confusion, and you shake your head reassuringly, patting his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Buck.” You want to pull him into a hug, but you can’t. You know it’ll overwhelm him, spook him, and you can’t do that to him. Not now.

You go and get your equipment from Sharon Carter. For some reason, the two of you kiss, and you glance over at the car to where Sam and Bucky are waiting. Sam is nodding in approval with a knowing smirk. Bucky…

Bucky’s got a forced, stiff smile on his face that makes you flash back to 1943. You’re standing in front of Peggy Carter, Bucky’s just shouted _let’s hear it for Captain America_ , and you see out of the corner of your eye as everyone erupts in cheers and applause that he’s watching the two of you, smiling that same smile you see on his face now, and nodding to himself as his stiff expression slowly morphs into something dangerously close to anger.

_You can love more than one person at a single time. And you can love some people more deeply than others. That doesn’t mean you love the other any less._

And you wonder just why the hell you’re kissing Sharon Carter in the first place. Are you that desperate to have your old life back? Are you that far in denial?

You send out the rallying call to Clint Barton, and you all travel to Germany to meet up with him. After he drops off Wanda Maximoff at the safe house you’re all staying at, he says he’ll report back with Scott Lang. On the day he’s supposed to arrive, you all go to the international airport and find a secluded section of the parking garage. And as you wait for the archer to return with the burglar-turned-vigilante you notice that Bucky’s gone from the car. Your heart speeds up mercilessly, fear flooding your veins and turning you to ice, and you look around wildly thinking the worst, that he’s run away, that you’ve lost him again –

You heave a sigh of relief as you see him standing over in the far corner of the parking garage floor, staring out at the bustling facility below. You can see his eyes roving quickly, taking in everything, scoping out potential threats and vantage points.

You walk towards him, careful to make noise as you approach so he knows you’re coming. He glances at you over his shoulder ever so slightly before looking forward again.

“Buck. You okay?” You come to a stop beside him, looking at him in earnest. When he speaks, he does so without looking at you.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, words quiet.

“Because you’re my friend,” you answer immediately, and he scoffs, finally looking at you.

“You can’t believe that.”

“I _do_ ,” you counter. “You _are_ , Buck.” He looks back down at the airport.

“I killed Howard.” You swallow painfully and follow his gaze.

“I know. But it wasn’t you. It was the Winter Soldier. You _have_ to know that, Buck.” You look at the man beside you, but his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried he’s going to crack his teeth so you know this conversation won’t go any further. “You okay?”

“What’s gonna happen next?”

You look over your shoulder to where the others are talking, completely ignoring you two, and back to the man beside you.

“We’re gonna run, Buck. To the end of the line.” He looks up at you, startled, and you take a chance. You loop your arm around his shoulders and pull him close. “Just like I promised.”

“End of the line, huh?” he asks, like he’s checking to see if you mean it. You nod and tighten your half-embrace.

“End of the line,” you confirm, and you swear to god you feel a brush of metal along your hip before Sam calls out to you, and you both turn around, breaking apart.

“Yo, Rogers! Bird Boy just called, ETA five minutes.”

“Be right there!” you call and look back to the man on your right. You have one last question you need to ask. “What do you remember? And don’t worry – you can be honest.”

He looks at you evenly, eyes and expression unreadable.

“Everything.” He pauses and makes a face. “Well, almost everything. Some of the details are still fuzzy.” You’re trying to think of something to say when he continues. “But…I remember enough. I remember us. I…remember the train. The fall. I remember _them_. The things they did to me. But most of all, I remember us.”

_I remember us._

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, and he frowns, suddenly cagey again like he’s scared you’ve betrayed him, that you’ve turned him in. When he speaks, his voice is slow, cautious.

“For wha–”

“I didn’t catch you. On the train with Zola, I…I didn’t catch you.” Bucky’s expression softens slightly. And what he says makes you want to cry in relief.

“Steve. I don’t blame you.” You brace your hands against the half-wall of the parking garage and look down. Bucky walks around to your left side, mirrors your posture, and your shoulders brush. “I _don’t_ blame you.” You look at him, tears in your eyes.

“I don’t blame you, either.” You both go silent. Lean against each other, feel the warmth of his body against yours and yours against his.

 _I remember us. And I don’t blame you_.

You don’t know what’s going to happen next. Don’t know how you’re going to get out of this one alive. But you know that no matter what happens, you’ll be right here next to him. That James Buchanan Barnes will be by your side right to the end.

And after all of that, after everything you’ve both been through; everything you’ve seen together; everything you’ve done together, back to back, fists clenched and teeth bared at the world – after everything the universe has hurled at you – the two kids from Brooklyn with scuffed clothes and black eyes and bloody noses and split lips – you ended up _here_ once more. Face to face with him – no weapons, no violence.

He’s different. A stranger. But if you look close enough, you know he’s not.

He’s got those same grey blue eyes – even if they’re worn now and hardened. Yours are, too. You know they are.

His hair is longer, but it’s still that same brown, still combed ever so slightly to the right. Your hair’s different, too. It’s shorter, spiked up a little more.

His mouth is still the same, but there’s something heavier to the line of his lips. Like they’ve forgotten how to smile after everything he’s been through, but there’s still that slight, natural upward curve at the corners of his mouth that tell you he still could – if he remembered how. You know you look the same way. Most of your smiles are ironic or tired these days. Rarely genuine.

He’s stronger, seems impossibly taller. His bionic left arm is heavy on his body, dragging his posture ever so slightly off balance. It gives him a swagger when he walks, his playful saunter of old turned predatorial and dangerous. His stance is perpetually ready for action, eyes scanning for potential threats and exits, legs braced ever so slightly. His hands rest on his belt, one a little lower than the other, hovering where a gun holster should be.

It’s a soldier’s stance.

And it’s one that you, too, have become intimately, _painfully_ familiar with.

So what if he’s different? You are, too. No matter what you two go through, you always seem to end up on the other side of it together. Once more unto the breach, once more unto the breach – never ending, always fighting, but you always – _always,_ over the course of _ninety years –_ end up side by side. After everything, he’s still there, staring at you. And so are you.

You smile at him, the first _genuine_ smile in a long time, and you swear you see a ghost of a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a brief flash of light in those eyes.

And you know that you would die for him. You would run with him to the end of the line, throw yourselves on the grenades, fall into the ice, dive into the center of the blast. But perhaps even more meaningful is that you know, deep down, you’d live for him, too. Because dying in this line of work is too easy. And you know what? You’re both too damn stubborn to do it.

_Steven Rogers and Bucky Barnes: inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield._

And you can’t help but think…after _everything…_

_Wouldn’t you love him, too?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! leave a comment, kudos, or nothing on your way out.


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